Ache For You

51

He says it as if it’s a foregone conclusion she’d take my word over his, even though she met me mere days ago and we haven’t exactly become the best of friends. My intuition tells me I’ve stepped into all kinds of sticky, smelly ancient family poop, so deep I’d need an earthmover to get to the bottom of it.

Of course that makes me insanely intrigued and want to dive right in.

Aiming for nonchalance, I say, “You’ve blackmailed other designers before me, hmm?”

“No. She just doesn’t expect me to be anything but disappointing.”

That’s so unexpected I have no response. Disappointing? Her handsome, respectful, successful son is a disappointment to her?

I become convinced there’s a terrible, dark secret in his background that his mother had to cover up. Like an accidental death or a gnarly history of drug abuse. Some horrible scandal had to be hidden so they could continue to hold their heads high in the aristocratic circles they run in.

Maybe that’s why he’s always so quick to defend her honor! She holds the keys to his skeleton closet!

Or maybe it’s more mundane than that. Maybe he’s more like Brad than I realized. Not the gay thing—there’s no way Matteo is batting for the other team. No, the gambling, running-up-debts, besmirching-the-family-name-with-douchebaggery thing.

Oh God. Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to him. Maybe I have a type. Men Who Seem Like Catches but Are in Fact Giant Lying Pieces of s**t.

This is an awful realization, like finding out Santa Claus is a lie. I wonder if I should try being a lesbian?

“What are you thinking?”

My mouth is ahead of my brain. “About becoming a lesbian.”

Without missing a beat, Matteo says, “You’d make a terrible lesbian.”

“I think I’d make a great lesbian!”

“You like d**k too much.”

My face flames with heat. “I don’t like d**k any more or less than the next girl.”

His arm tightens around me. Into my ear he says in a husky murmur, “Yes, you do. You just haven’t ridden the right d**k yet.”

I want to fan myself, but I’m too busy hiding my face in the pillow. I have no idea how we went from revealing painful family dynamics to riding d***s so quickly, but here we are.

He punctuates his statement with a soft kiss on the nape of my neck. It sends a little tremor throughout my body, which he evidently knew it would because his chuckle is so smug I want to strangle him.

“You’re an awful person.”

“And yet you want me.”

“We’re back to that line? Your ego has its own atmosphere, you know that? God, I wish vanity were painful.”

“I’m not vain, I’m merely stating the facts.”

“Please stop talking now. You’re making me want to commit murder.”

His chest shakes with the laughter he’s trying to suppress. “Remember what I told you about love and hate, bella. Two sides of the same coin.”

He renders me useless by starting to massage my skull. It’s heaven. His hands are big and strong, and the pleasure makes my eyes cross. I sigh again, caught between wanting to stand up and smother him with the pillow and wanting to live the rest of my life in this bed.

“Don’t you have to go to work? It’s Monday.”

“I will. Eventually. Right now I’ve got more important things to do.”

“Hmpf.”

He whispers, “Go back to sleep.”

“Like I could.”

“Why not?”

“Gee, let’s see. We’re in your bed, for starters.”

“Fully clothed. Which is how we’ll stay.” Pregnant pause. “Unless you’re planning on undressing me.”

“Shut up.”

His fingers slide around my head and start to massage my temples. I make a noise like a pig digging for truffles.

“At least let the aspirin get to work. When you feel better, I’ll drive you home. Then, later on or tomorrow, you can let me know what you decide about my offer.”

It could be my imagination, but something in his voice makes me think he knows I’ve already decided to say yes.

Well, he’s not the only one with a dastardly plan.

I knew this was gonna get ugly.

TWENTY-ONE

When I wake again, the angle of the light slanting through the windows high on the stone walls tells me it’s no longer morning. My headache is better, but my mouth still tastes rank, and I really have to pee.

I’d move but there’s a heavy arm thrown over me, pinning me in place.

Matteo and I are in the same position we were when I fell back to sleep, only now he’s asleep, too. His breathing is deep and even. He doesn’t snore, which makes me hate him even more.

One of these days I’ll discover what faults he has other than egomania and a tendency toward the theft of intellectual property.

I carefully grasp his wrist and begin to move it so I can get up.

“Forget it. You’re not sneaking off.” His voice is deep and scratchy with sleep. He tightens his arm around me.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

A low noise of disagreement rumbles through his chest.

“Like . . . bad.”

He withdraws his arm, gives my waist a squeeze, then a gentle push. “If you’re not back in three minutes, I’m coming to look for you.”

“Irritating,” I mutter, and throw off the covers. I hop off the bed and head toward a door standing ajar on the other side of the room, hoping it’s the bathroom. I’m relieved to find that it is and quickly shut the door behind me.