Page 32 of Chasing Hope

I must be misunderstanding my feelings. I haven’t wanted to be touched in months since that night.

Shaking my head, I clear my throat. “The hike did me some good. Seeing Cindy, a woman who isn’t a lying, backstabbing bitch, will be even better.”

Matteo bites the inside of his cheek, a brow rising.

“Do you have a problem with my cursing now, Valenti?”

“The opposite. It’s nice to hear your colorful vocabulary again.”

“Excited to trade places?”

He clutches his chest. “Like you wouldn’t believe. Doesn’t your throat get sore talking so much? Mine’s getting a workout.”

I shove Matteo as I stand, but quickly snatch my hand back as an electric shock jolts my arm. Doesn’t matter that the sensation happens every time we touch, it’s always jarring. I try to pushaway the flutter in my stomach, but the more I try to get rid of it, the more sick I feel with myself.

Why couldn’t I feel this way with someone else? Literally anyone else? Why does my body only feel comfortable around Matteo?

“Dove?”

“I’m going for a run,” I blurt before I know what I’m saying.

A run?

As if hearing my own thoughts, Matteo cocks his head. “A run?”

And yet, the longer it sits in the air, the more right it feels. I should go, run out all this uncertainty and try to clear my thoughts. Everything feels so muddled internally, like I’m constantly escaping quicksand and then just falling into another trap.

Nodding, I carefully step around Matteo, making sure our skin doesn’t come into contact again. “Yep, a run.”

“You just puked and it’s barely light outside.”

“It’ll be sunrise by the time I stretch. It’s fine.”

“Can I come with you? Make sure you’re okay?”

“No, I’m fine. I promise.”

“Do you even have shoes?”

Spinning on my heel, my eyes narrow on Matteo standing in the doorway looking…worried? “Why are you fretting like you’re my mother?”

Matteo slides his hands into the pockets of his gray sweatpants.

Gray fucking sweatpants.

Why does this man have to be so fucking handsome? It’s borderline a crime.

Don’t ogle the man, Evie. I repeat, do not ogle the hot, six-foot-five muscle god staring you down.

Leaning against the doorframe, Matteo arches an incredulous brow at me. “You were just sick two minutes ago and now want to run at night through downtown Denver. Can’t blame a man for having a few safety concerns.”

“I’m fine,” I say through clenchedteeth.

Don’t look at his bulging biceps, Evie.

Fuck, I looked.

I need to start using reverse psychology on myself.