My head snaps up.
"What?"
He gives me that infuriating grin again. "The one I said would look better on you than makeup."
I groan and drag a hand through my hair, already feeling the headache forming behind my eyes.
"Mateo," I say flatly, "I don't own a skirt."
He shrugs, completely unaffected. "Then we'll have to go shopping. I hear plaid's back in."
He says it so casually, like he didn't just talk about rearranging my internal organs and stealing my dessert in the same breath.
"You're insane," I mutter.
Mateo winks. "And yet… you're still letting me hang around. I wonder why that is."
I say nothing.
But my face stays red.
And his smirk only grows wider.
"Really?" Mateo arches a brow, propping one foot casually on my kitchen counter like he owns the place. "I definitely had you pegged as the kind of gay guy who owns a skirt."
I blink. Did he just—
"Well," I shoot back, cocking a brow and trying to keep my cool, "you won't be pegging anything today."
