Ache For You

10

So it’s logic versus hormones who commence a death match, while my uterus cheers on from the sidelines, waving pom-poms and jumping up and down in glee.

Logic tells me that I’ve been giving away my cookie for free for years to Brad with nothing to show for it. No, wait—those are my sneaky hormones, who are clearly on the side of Euro Hunk. What logic is actually telling me is that the flight is only moments away from boarding. If Euro Hunk wants some nookie, he’d probably settle for a quick blowie in a men’s room stall. There’s simply not enough time for anything else.

My hormones scream in happiness at the thought, but logic tells them sourly that if Euro Hunk is the kind of man who’d accept a blowie from a stranger in an airport restroom, he’s most likely riddled with STDs.

Team Hormones reminds me that there will be a condom machine in the men’s room.

Team Logic reminds me I could probably reconstruct the designs from memory. If not perfectly, enough to get by.

Team Hormones says yeah, but just look at him. His p***s is probably as glorious as the rest of his body. He’d be doing us both a favor, sweetheart, and you’d get your sorry ass on that flight.

Team Logic sighs and reminds me that although my moral compass recused itself, I’d feel dirty and used, and haven’t I had enough of that already this week?

I expel a huge gust of air, release Euro Hunk’s cashmere sleeve from my death grip, and unzip my carry-on. I present him with the sketch pad with both hands, like the precious gift it is.

“Here. Take it. Nothing is worth missing this flight.”

Not even the sight of your glorious p***s.

He examines my face in silence for a beat, then takes the pad from my hands. He starts to flip through it. Distracted, he instructs the gate agent, “Carry on.”

She shakes her head as if she can’t believe this s**t, either, and recommences typing into her computer.

“These are incredible,” murmurs Euro Hunk, admiring a page with a drawing of an elegant one-shoulder crimson gown, the kind a sophisticated woman might wear to a formal party. The model’s body is loosely sketched, but I spent a lot of time on the detail of the dress. It seems to leap from the page. I can almost hear the sigh of silk as the skirt sways around the model’s legs.

“Yeah, well, they’re yours now, so enjoy.”

I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice when I say that because I’m getting what I wanted after all. I won’t have to wait until tomorrow to get on another flight, and hopefully that will translate into getting to my father’s bedside before the unthinkable happens.

“Just out of curiosity, why did you want them?”

Euro Hunk glances up at me. His mouth takes on a ruthless slant. “I’m an avid collector.”

I frown at him. “Of sketch pads?”

His hesitation is split-second, so short I probably imagine it.

“Of art.”

I’m flattered he thinks my drawings qualify as art, but I’m also crushed I’ve lost the sketch pad, and I’m also filled with gratitude that he’s giving up his seat for me, and I’m also confused about how much I’d simultaneously like to kiss him and punch him in the face. So I’m not able to offer more of a response than a defeated, “Huh.”

“Okay, we’re all set!”

The gate agent’s smile stretches from ear to ear. She hands me my ID and a new boarding pass. “I need both of you to sign these release forms, please. And I’ve just checked you in, madam, so you can go ahead and board. Right through those doors.”

“Thanks.” I sign on the paper where she indicates, then take the boarding pass and turn to Euro Hunk. “And thank you. Sincerely. This is really amazing.” I add sheepishly, “And sorry again about my behavior in the AmEx lounge.”

“If you really want to make it up to me, give me your phone number.”

That stops me cold. He waits through my hesitation with eagle-sharp eyes, his impatience palpable. Not only is he a man who doesn’t often hear no, he obviously doesn’t have to wait for things, either.

Because he’s aristocracy. An Italian marchese, a.k.a. the Big Cheese.

Who probably has twelve mistresses, is cheap with his servants, and beats his dog.

I go back to hating him with the speed of two fingers snapping.

“Sure,” I say graciously, smiling. “Do you have a pen?”

He whisks out a silver Mont Blanc from his suit-jacket pocket while I hunt for a scrap of paper in my purse. Then I scribble my digits on the paper with my name underneath.

Well, not my name and number. I don’t know who the number belongs to, but the name belongs to a woman who knows how to put a philandering asshole in his place.

FOUR

MATTEO

I watch her walk through the glass doors of the boarding gate and down the gangway until she disappears around a bend. I’m not surprised when she doesn’t look back.

I don’t know why her foul mouth and dismissive attitude please me so much, but they do.

Go f**k yourself, she told me.

No one has ever spoken to me with such disrespect in my life.

It matters little that she thought I was a paparazzo at the time. I could be the king of Spain in coronation robes for all she’d care.

Che palle. The balls on that woman. I know mafiosi more meek.

I didn’t know about the bad attitude when I first saw her, though. It wasn’t her smart mouth that had me sucking in a breath.

It was that hair. Black, thick, pin straight, cascading like a brushstroke over one shoulder. That mouth. Red as a f*****g strawberry. That milk-pale skin. Her colors were so vivid. So much contrast. It took me a moment to take her all in.