Page 6 of For Cowgirls and Kings

Mateo grunts, and I lift my head, pocketing my phone oncemore. He watches me, before shooting me a small smile. “No TV?”

I bark a laugh at that, instantly deflating and move into the kitchen, leaving him to follow behind me. “I prefer books.”

“You don’t say.” There’s no judgment in his voice, only amusement.

“Sometimes I like to escape my life.” It’s an off-handed comment, but I refuse to look at him all the same. I can feel his gaze boring into the side of my head, like he’s waiting for me to turn. But I refuse. Finally, his gaze shifts.

“Good god, is that your cat?”

I turn around to find Queen Tut brushing his massive orange body along Mateo’s perfectly creased pant leg, leaving behind a blanket of orange hair. I giggle, and reach for the lint roller I keep on the counter for just this emergency. Mateo sees me coming toward him, and waves me off. He bends over, picking up Tut with an exaggerated groan.

“Holy shit, what do you feed him?” Tut’s on his back in Mateo’s giant arms, and I silently wish I could trade places with the fat cat. Setting the roller down, I motion for Mateo to hand me him. Surprising me, he backs up, his eyebrows in a deep V. “No way, we’re bonding.”

I blink rapidly, trying to reconcile the ovary bursting image in front of me. “You like cats?”

He shrugs. “Not especially. But I’ve never been allowed to have one, so who knows. Besides, if he’s the love of your life, I suppose I better get to know him.”

There’s so much in that sentence that I simply don’t know how to digest. The biggest being the implication that Mateo will be seeing Tut more, which makes zero sense.

“Are you going to feed the poor guy, or do you want to point me in the direction of his food? Can’t you see he’s withering away?” His voice takes on a light crooning sound, and I have tophysically grip the counter top to keep from falling over. Tut’s enormous tail flicks back and forth, his amber eyes staring up at the man cradling him. He’s instantly in love, and I don’t blame him.

“Told you he was into boys,” I huff, and reach into the cupboard to pull out a can of his wet food.

I feel Mateo step closer before I hear him, and I focus on my hands instead of the heat enveloping my back.

“And how many boys has sweet Tut met?”

My hand hovers above the counter, mind racing.Did he just ask me how many guys I’ve had over at my house?

“Oh all the boys.” I resume my task of getting Tut food, and smile. If he wants to be nosy, I can play that game too.

Except it’s a fucking mistake. Because before I can scoop the food into his bowl, a large hand roughly grips my hip, sending a bolt of electricity to race through me. I drop the can and spoon, both clattering to the green tile countertop.

“Dale, don’t tease me. It’s not nice.” Mateo gently whispers the words, but there’s violence laced in each one. Violence I should be afraid of, considering who he is to the rest of the world, but they only piss me off. We’ve been friends too fucking long for me to care about what he could do to me with all his power.

He wouldn’t fucking dare.

His grip tightens a fraction, and I hold my breath, before he releases me, stomping out of the kitchen.

“Queen Tut is hungry,” he calls, and I hear a pleading meow accompany the words.

With shaky hands, I finish doling out the wet food and carry it into the other room. Mateo’s body consumes most of my velvety purple couch, his shoulders expanding over half the size of the scrolled backing. Queen Tut jumps down from his place on Mateo’s lap and jogs over, his primordial pouch swishing. Ipet his head, hoping to gather some semblance of calm from him as I try to sort through my jumbled thoughts, and then stand up.

“What do you like on your pizza?” Mateo doesn’t look up from his phone and I just stare at him.

“Do you even know how to order a pizza? Don’t you have like a butler that does that for you or something?”

“I think I can figure it out.” I don’t know if he’s kidding or not, but he looks a genuine mix of frustration and hurt and whatever harsh words I might have uttered die on my tongue.

“Ham and pineapple,” I state, folding myself into the plush green velvet reclineracross from him. I ignore the fact that his eyes dart over the space next to him, and back at me, his scowl deepening just a fraction.

“Of course you’d like weird fucking shit on your pizza.”

He doesn’t know he’s the only man I’ve ordered a late night pizza with, or the only man who’s ever been in my house—the only other man who’s met Queen Tut,ever.

And I plan to keep it that way.

If he knew those things, I think he’d stop scowling at me, and then I’d get really confused about what we’re doing.