The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(38)

“You don’t have Wi-Fi.” Beyond judgment, I’m in the horror zone.

“Nope.” And he seems entirely unperturbed about his caveman status. He licks the spoon and tosses it in the sink. “Now, I made you a breakfast blend with coconut oil and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Don’t knock it until you try it.”

He laughs at the face I make. Hipster status fully reinstated. “Coconut oil?” Though the scent of cinnamon tantalizes my nose.

“It makes the coffee taste even better. Would you like a biscotti?”

I nod my head. What man even has biscotti in his house? Double hipster points awarded, even if they are awesome hipster points. I can’t think of any other way to phrase it, but Matteo is the adultiest adult I’ve met in a long time. He’s a real grown-up. Fully in the man category, unlike some of the borderline perpetual teenagers I seem to meet.

If my life is Firefly, my crew consists of these forever-young people—they’re playful, they’re geeky, they’re always up for a marathon of Arrow. But in a way, it’s refreshing to meet someone who made the leap—Matteo’s the novelty in my world. Usually I am repelled by the thought of dating an adult. I picture being a grown-up as stuffy, no room for play, fun, or color in life. It’s “go to the office, kiss wife on cheek, read the news, go to bed, repeat until you die,” as modeled by my parents. But Matteo . . . His version of adult is different. It’s polished, sophisticated, and sure, he owns more than one pair of shoes and a couch made from something other than plastic, but he seems alive still. Maybe it’s his job, that he brushes shoulders with danger. Maybe it’s that he seems to not only accept my quirks and my hair and my comics but is charmed by them. Or maybe it’s just him.

My eyes stray to my yellow flats sitting next to Matteo’s shoes on the step. Out of place, but a welcome relief against the gray background. Like his house needs my splash of color. The thought takes my brain all sorts of places and gives me a pang of wanting I shouldn’t feel with my work partner. I mentally pull myself back from the edge.

“But what do you do out here?” No online gaming. No Reddit. No Instagram. No Netflix.

“I read. I sit out on my patio and listen to the desert. Work on my cases. Think.”

“So you work, and then you come out here and you work. But don’t you get—” I snap my mouth shut, realizing how personal and inappropriate my question is going to be.

“Lonely?” He thinks for a moment, then sips his coffee. “Yeah. Sometimes. And I know everyone else loves the city, but it fills up my head. I get this wired energy, and I can’t relax. I can relax out here, and I need it. I’m not a great person otherwise. I’ve met that Matteo. I don’t like him.” He looks . . . wistful? Bitter? Resentful? His eyes find mine, and we sit in silence as the steam from our cups rises between us. “But yeah. Lonely sometimes.”

It sounds like an admission. A personal admission, like maybe he feels less lonely with me here. My stomach does a flip-flop. He hit the nail on the head with how I’ve been feeling lately. Wired up and pulled in a lot of different directions. Maybe I need some time in the desert too. Complete with a bodyguard to protect me from coyotes and all the bad guys who suddenly sprang to life in my world.

But no Netflix. That seems extreme.

I take a hesitant sip of my coffee to fill the thoughtful silence that’s fallen. It’s . . . good. Better than good. This is the best damn cup of black coffee I’ve had in ages—no milk, sugar, or caramel needed. Just like Matteo, it’s simple, straightforward, and unique. I moan in delight.

Humor is back in his eyes now, the flash of vulnerability and heat gone. “I told you it’s good.” He takes another sip to make his point. “So if we’re supposed to be dating, I should probably know more about you. What exactly is it that you do for work?”

I shrug. “Perhaps I’m a woman of mystery.”

He looks out the window, so I can’t tell if he’s teasing. “You most certainly win that title. I know you know a lot about comics. But what do you do?”

“I write,” I say simply. “In big comics it’s often split up into two pieces. The art and the writing. Some people get to do both. Quite a lot of the commercial stuff is published so fast that it’s easier for one person to do one, and one to do the other. I lay out a general story line and break it into pages and panels. Then the artist draws what they think matches with the story. Sometimes it’s a two-way street and they feel really strongly about a panel they want to draw, and I adjust the story or the structure of the page for it.”

We lapse into silence. I can’t quit contemplating my damn shoes at his house. Like a splatter of yellow paint from a dropped brush on an otherwise pristine page of line drawings. A puzzle to figure out, like there’s something to put together. The feeling his house has been missing my shoes.

“Were you ever married?” My words fall out before I check them.

“Going right for the big guns, huh?” But he doesn’t look upset.

“It seems like if we’re supposed to be dating that I would know.”

“I was engaged for a few years.”

“Oh. What happened?” I want to smack myself. “Wait, you don’t have to answer that. That’s really nosy.”

I catch a flash of white teeth as he laughs again, and my spirits buoy. “It’s okay. And you don’t need to be sorry. I’m glad I figured out it wouldn’t work before we got married and had kids. She was an actress—”