Page 32 of The Golden Scoop

“Will you admit now I’m not who you thought I was?” he whispers, his finger running lazy circles on the inside of my wrist. “So many things you don’t know…”

That instinct inside me wants to argue that just because he likes to read, it doesn’t make my other assumptions any less true, but there’s something about being this close to him, those baby blue eyes staring deep into me, that scrambles every argument I had lined up.

Most of the time, male perfume annoys me. They put on too much, and I’m too sensitive to smell to handle it with grace. But God damn, he smells so good it’s got me questioning my sanity.

“Like what?” is the only thing I can muster.

He comes closer, forcing me to tilt my head up to still catch his eyes. The distance between us seems to shrink with every passing second, and I’m frozen in place.

Almost in slow motion, his eyes drop from mine to my lips.

“Like how much I want to⁠—”

“Guys, your drinks are ready!” says George, coming around the corner, holding two steaming mugs.

I sneak out from under Matt, quickly putting some space between us.

Seemingly unbothered, he smirks, thanking the elderly man and taking our coffees.

This small store had already won my heart over the second I stepped inside, but as if that wasn’t enough, Matt leads us to the back corner where they have set up a tiny reading nook. Almost like a secret reward you earn for knowing where to look.

Two soft, inviting chairs sit side by side, close enough to feel intentional and intimate, meant for two people who don’t mind sharing silence. And that’s definitely not us.

The light sneaks in through a small window, soft and golden. Dust motes drift lazily through it, turning the air into a dreamlike scene. He takes a seat, but I just stand there, taking it in, cherishing this newly found utopia. A few plants hang from the windowsill, slightly overgrown but thriving, nonetheless.

Even so, it doesn’t feel staged. It feels lived in. Like this little spot has seen more of George and Beatrice than anyone else. And many others, I’m sure.

I hesitate, nervous to discover what this place might do to me, but eventually I settle next to him.

“If you want to take notes, I won’t judge you,” Matt says honestly.

“For some reason, I don’t think I’d be able to mention Dog-Eared in the article. It’s too personal to be shown to anyone.” I take a sip of my coffee and it’s perfect. Of course. I groan in delight. “Unless they want the press, but I don’t think they do.”

“I’m not one to tell you how to do your job, but I feel like you’re going to have to report on something if your goal is to transition to writing,” he jokes. I shoot him a death glare. “You never mentioned anything before. I was surprised when Jennifer told me it was you who’d be covering it.”

I shrug, trying to choose my words carefully before answering. “It’s what I went to school for. I’ve always loved writing, and although I also like what I do now, I’ll admit there’s always been an itch to have my words out there for everyone to read.”

“Well, since we’re being honest… I’ll admit this is not something I normally share with people because it doesn’t fit the image that was created of me. It’s not interesting enough to⁠—”

“Sell,” I finish for him, the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together.

He nods and laughs quietly to himself.

“I mean, take the movie I’m filming now. Can you imagine a guy like King taking a break for a night in with a good book?”

King, the character he plays—a government spy—is the embodiment of bad-boy Matt. And he’s right. The only thing he’s read is probably the FBI’s most wanted list, if that.

“What a shame,” I say, cutting him some slack. I can sense he’s not happy about having to ‘hide’ this. “I think this is the best version of Matthew Hunt I’ve ever met.”

I finish my coffee under his gaze, completely unreadable. He doesn’t tease me for complimenting him, nor does he fish for more. He simply sits there, taking it in as if I’ve handed him something fragile.

“If only everyone thought the same,” he mumbles, getting up and tugging me with him. “I’m buying you a book. Come.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” I argue. It’ll end up sitting on my coffee table until Julia gets back, reads it, and then proceeds to give me a detailed summary so I can blurt repeat everything back to Matt. “I think the last book I finished was in high school.”

“This will be fun, trust me. Plus, it’s an essential part of the outing. You can’t say no.”

I follow him until we’re surrounded by romance books with shirtless men on the cover. He flips through a couple, giving each a minute of undivided attention until he settles on one titled Billionaire at Play.