“Hmm,” I reply to his statement.
As we finish up our meal, Matthew finally speaks again. “How’s the shelter?”
I blink a few times, surprised by his question. In the two months I’ve dated Matthew, he’s rarely asked about it. In fact, I’ve always felt he finds my volunteering there silly. No, he’s never said that, but it’s in the way his eyes glaze over with boredom when I start to tell him about a rescue we received that day or an adoption we sent to its forever home.
Pushing my plate away, I turn slightly toward him on the stool. “Going well. We received a Belgian horse earlier in the week. She’s the most beautiful animal I’ve ever seen. Her coloring is simply gorgeous and her stance so regal. Her owner passed away, and his family didn’t want the responsibility of raising her. It can be hard to find homes for large animals in the city,” I tell him, leaving off the part about wishing I could take her home.
“My brother used to own a few horses in Montana. They’re splendid animals,” he replies, the smallest smile on his lips, as if he’s recalling a visit out that way.
“They are. I always wished my parents would have built a small barn in our backyard when I was growing up, but they never did. I took riding lessons from a woman for a year or so, but it never went any further than that. It’s a commitment to raise, breed, train, or compete with larger breed animals, and my parents weren’t really ready for it. Well, my mother wasn’t. I’m sure I could have easily talked my dad into getting me a horse or two,” I state, grinning at how easily I could manipulate my dad to get what I wanted back then. However, Mother put her foot down when it came to animals, claiming to be allergic.
After another few long seconds, he asks, “Would you like another drink?”
Liquid courage? Yes, please!
“That would be great. Maybe we could take the drinks into the living room and talk?”
When he nods in reply, I collect the plates and set them by the sink while he tops off my wine glass and grabs himself another beer. I slip the lids back onto the to-go containers and set them in the fridge, all while Matthew watches me. I wish I could read his mind sometimes. He’s so hard to figure out.
“Ready?” he asks, taking my glass and his bottle and heading for the living room.
The room is very formal, and not at all what I’d picture Matthew having in his living room. In fact, it almost feels like a showroom. Even the décor doesn’t scream Matthew Wilder. Not that I really know that much about him, as proven by the missing family details, but this is definitely not how I’d picture him living.
“This room is getting redone next week,” he says out of the blue. When I look his way, I realize he must have been watching me.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, this room pretty much sucks,” he says bluntly, making me laugh.
“It’s very nice,” I reply, only slightly lying. It is actually a pretty great room, just not the style I’d go for.
He snorts and shakes his head. “It’s too formal for my taste. I’m thinking of adding a big elk head above the mantel.”
I look from the location he indicated back to him, trying to figure out if he’s joking or not, finding just the slightest touch of humor in his eyes. “Really?”
He sits down on the couch and kicks his feet up on the coffee table. The sound of his boots—Holy cow, he’s wearing work boots—scraping against the ornate, dark wood echoes through the room. “Really. I think it would look nice. Don’t you?”
I take a seat beside him, keeping a comfortable six-inch space between his body and my own, and look at the mantel. “Well, I think it will depend on what else you’re going to do with the room, but if elk heads are what you want, then I think you should definitely do it.”
Reaching for my wine glass, I take a hearty drink. I’m not sure if it’s for liquid courage or to try to calm my racing heart, but the familiar taste does help relax me.
That is, until I set it down and turn to face him.
Positioning myself on the edge of the couch, I focus on Matthew, who’s lounging, looking all comfy. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“Sure,” he says, mimicking my position on the couch and angling to face me.
I’m not really sure how to begin. Do I just blurt out my questions about our relationship or ease into them? Matthew’s always been blunter with little patience when it came to waiting for anything, so I assume blunt is better. But when I look up at him, he seems to just study me, as if he’s taking me in. There’s something in his gaze that causes me to relax, even though my anxiety is sky high.
I end up standing. I need to move, so I pace back and forth in front of where he sits. To my surprise, Matthew doesn’t say anything. It’s as if I truly have something on my mind, and he’s waiting for me to say it.
“So, I’ve been doing some thinking,” I finally spit out in a rush.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. About you and me.” I stop pacing and turn to look at him. He’s standing up now, directly behind me, towering over me with his large presence. I have to look up to meet his gaze, and when I do, I’m not exactly sure what I see. Apprehension? Relief?
“Okay,” he replies, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “Hit me with it.”
So I do.
I basically throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him down toward my mouth. Matthew stumbles a bit, but rights us quickly so we don’t go down. One minute he’s ripping his hands from
