When the woman gives us the total, Mateo hands her his card without hesitation.
"Oh, shit," I mutter. "I didn't bring any money."
He glances at me with a laugh. "Like I was ever going to let you pay."
"That's fair," I admit with a weak smile.
After thanking the artists, I tug him toward the wall of sketches by the door, pretending to be fascinated by the artwork so I don't have to dwell on what I just confessed. Still, I squeeze his hand tight, grounding myself in his presence.
"Now what?" I ask, my voice a little steadier this time.
"Now," Mateo says with that determined look of his, "we go home, get some sleep, and tomorrow? We're going to The Times."
