Page 46 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)
THIRTY-SIX
ADALENE
I feel like Pretty Woman right now; completely out of my element but loving every second of it. It’s like I’m in a fairy tale, and even though I’m very aware it’ll eventually end, I can’t be bothered to worry about it right now— Mateo’s undivided attention is like a drug and I’m hooked.
We walk over the brick cobbled streets, the air thick with the smell of dirt and cattle and truck exhaust—the scent wholly unique to Downtown Fort Worth.
We just narrowly escaped the daily mob of people gathering to watch the cattle drive down the street, their claps and wonky cowboy hats enough to make me roll my eyes.
Mateo’s hand gently squeezes around mine, and I look at him confused.
“We can go back if you want—” Mateo starts, before I cut him off with a shake of my head.
“No, I promise I’m okay. And honestly, I’m curious where you’re taking me next. I’ve already spent a fortune and my feet are starting to ache.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have worn those boots,” he huffs, and a spark of annoyance spirals through me .
“What the hell’s wrong with my boots?”
“You look like you should be dancing on the Coyote Ugly bar somewhere.”
“Maybe that’s my plan this evening after we get back. My date should be there by eight to pick me up.”
He growls at that, tugging on my hand, and I stumble forward, crashing into his chest.
“The only date you have tonight is me.”
I raise an eyebrow, my eyes clashing with his dark glittering ones.
Something about today feels different—the air is charged with desire, and I’m desperate to see how far Mateo will go.
He’s been so careful, so aware of my space the last couple weeks.
But this man, the one vibrating beneath my touch with barely restrained anger?
He’s different, and I love it. I’ve forgotten how much I enjoy riling him up— seeing him unravel.
Before I can respond, he turns back around, pulling me inside the grand hotel at the end of the road. It’s an enormous estate, a garden sprawling in front of the cream bricks and terracotta roof tiles. The neon cowboy shimmers in the sunshine, his light not yet turned on for the evening.
I know of this hotel; everyone in Texas does.
“Mateo, what’re we doing here?”
Instead of responding, he strides confidently to the check-in counter, me in tow behind him like a dazed child.
I take in the grandiose interior—enormous bull skulls hanging on barn wood trimmed walls, cowhides and expensive rugs covering the floors, plush leather chairs big enough to swallow me, and painting after painting of incredible, Texas inspired views.
“Hello sir, what can I do for you?” My eyes snap to the woman behind the counter, her perfectly styled auburn ponytail swishing as she smiles a little too warmly at Mateo. Does she not see me standing here, holding his hand for fuck’s sake?
“Checking in,” he says, his hand never wavering within my own as he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, flipping it open to pull out a credit card and ID. He doesn’t even look at her, and some dark part of me revels in the way her smile sharpens, just a fraction at the dismissal.
I step toward him, leaning into the angry beast bubbling in my chest as I wrap my free hand around his bicep. He stills, his breathing halting, and a feline grin spreads across my face.
“Dearest, what a surprise. I feel so spoiled—first showered in gifts and now this.” My voice is sickly sweet, my eyes never wavering from the woman’s face. Mateo snorts, the sound so quiet I barely hear it, before he extends both cards out to her.
She takes them, her eyes dropping to the screen, and for a second I wonder if I read the situation wrong.
Was she hitting on him, or am I being irrationally jealous?
And what the hell does that mean if I am?
“We have a room with two queen beds overlooking the pool, or a king that overlooks the stockyards.” She waits, and I silently start to panic.
One, I didn’t even know we were staying the night, much less in a place like this.
Two, either way, the prospect of staying in a room with him feels like throwing myself into the flames once more—if he chooses two beds, I’ll be no closer to knowing what he wants from me, if he chooses one bed…
I’ll have to figure out what I want from him.
Both options feel like teetering on some unknown cliff.
“The king, of course,” he states, not looking at me. Some part of me both feared and hoped for that answer, and now that he’s requested a “single bed at the inn” I have no doubt the cards are heavily in my own hands.
What do I want? What does he want besides another chance to fuck me? Am I okay if it’s sex and nothing else? Is he?
It feels potentially cliche—the single bed at the inn trope happening in my very real, friends to whatever the fuck it is we are becoming plot line, but this is different.
We aren’ t forced to share a bed. Mateo’s choosing it.
He’s deciding to be as close to me as he can get, forcing his space to blend with my own.
And something about that feels far more powerful than any of the other versions of this story I’ve read about.
“Here’s your keys. Enjoy your stay,” the clerk says tartly, dismissing us to usher the next customer forward. Mateo leans down, his lips only an inch from my ear.
“Seeing you jealous turns me on.”
My heart pitter patters at his words, and I force a teasing smile, “Easy, your highness. She might get the impression we’re more than friends.”
At least, a girl can hope.
I walk into the massive room, admiring the clean white bed contrasting against the dark wooden beams in the ceiling and the bright watercolor horse painting hanging above it.
It’s the prettiest hotel room I’ve ever been in, and not for the first time today, I feel swept up in the magic of living someone else’s dream life. None of it feels real.
I note a bag I didn’t pack, overflowing with all of my bathroom things, sitting on a stand on the left side of the bed, farthest from the door, and a large black clothing bag spread across the white comforter.
I’ve always known Mateo to be sweet and affectionate, kind to a fault even sometimes.
But to know he’s capable of such an act as this—planning a getaway including all of my overnight items—feels like something else entirely.
This feels a little too close to being loved by someone who thinks you’re the world and deserve just as much, and that’s not a feeling I can afford to let myself feel. Not in regards to Mateo.
“Hello?” I call into the room, only to be met with silence.
After getting to our room, Mateo informed me he had booked me a massage for the time he had to go to a meeting. I’ve never even had a massage, but it was fucking incredible, and I’ll be asking him to book me one every year for Christmas as a special treat.
I did expect him to be done with his meeting by now though, and the fact that he’s not sends a pang of nervousness to spear through me.
This is the first time I’ve been alone since being kidnapped, outside of the fortress of Mateo’s house, and I feel the effects of my trauma gripping around my throat like a vise.
I stumble toward the bed, panic crawling across my skin with renewed heat. I can feel myself spiraling, and without someone here to pull me back, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to save myself.
With shaky fingers I pull out my phone, dialing Mateo’s number. The fact that he’s in a meeting doesn’t even register until he picks up, panic in his own voice.
“Dale, is everything okay?”
I restrain a sob, the lump in my throat feeling like a weighted ball, as I try to form other words. “You weren’t here when I got back.”
“I’m sorry, I’m still in my meeting. But I can come up now if you want. Is something wrong?” His voice is gentle and tender, just the concern in it enough to soothe my racing heart. I look back around the room for anything out of place or concerning.
Finding nothing I sigh heavily, the fiery panic fleeing my body almost as quickly as it ignited. That's the thing about trauma—the feelings it leaves behind come and go without rhyme or reason. “No, I’m…I’ll be okay.”
“If you need me, you call. I’ll pick up no matter what. But if you’re okay, I’m going to finish this meeting, and then you can get dressed and meet me at the bar at six for dinner. Is that okay?”
I could cry at the tenderness in his voice. It’s not something I’m used to, or something I’m sure I even deserve. “I’ll see you at six.”
“I’m serious, Dale. You can always call me; I’ll always answer.”
I hang up without response—no word feels worth the weight of the vow like statement he just made and that terrifies me. I don’t know if I can rely on him like that.
What if I’m already relying on him like that?
Taking a shaky breath, I set the phone down, running a hand over the dark bag, the brand in a circle on the front. Did he go back and get me something else?
The bag is taut, like it’s stuffed with pieces, and I pull the zipper down. My mind races as I take in each of the items layered within the bag—all dark colors, the fabrics and patterns of pieces I’d been drawn to when wandering around the store draped over wooden hangers.
Did he buy every item I looked at?
I pull on every hanger, the various extravagant western pieces more incredible and expensive than the last. There’s thousands of dollars here. What the fuck is he doing?
I notice a large box under the bag, the same logo on the top, a silken ribbon wrapped around it. My heart both soars and sinks at the sight of it.
I’ll never be able to pay him back for this show of wealth, but I also know myself well enough I won’t want to return whatever lies inside either. So I’ll either be heart broken when I can’t keep it, or live with the knowledge that I’m basically indebted to Mateo Reyes. Forever.