Ache For You

29

“It’s exactly the same as I remember,” I say, looking around. How did he manage to do all this alone?

As if he can read my thoughts, Dominic says, “Your father recently hired helpers, three ladies he trained to take orders and measurements, cut the cloth. The sewing he always did himself, of course.” He crosses to the counter with the register, jingling the keys in his hand. “Still no answering machine, though.” He catches my eye and smiles. “Or computer.”

“Or website. It’s like he didn’t believe the twenty-first century was a thing.”

Dominic chuckles. “He only got an email address so he could communicate with you. If they didn’t have computers for public use at the library, he would’ve kept sending letters.”

I drift over to a headless mannequin situated on a dais between the two single dressing rooms. She wears a gown of palest pink, cinched at the waist and cut generously through the hips, with a plunging neckline and cap sleeves. It’s feminine to the extreme, exquisitely chic. When I look at the tag, I sigh in exasperation.

“No wonder he was broke.”

An examination of several more dresses reveals a truth I’ve known all my life: My father should’ve had a business partner. Some artists can successfully create and deal with money, but he wasn’t one of them.

“I offered many times to assist, but you know how stubborn he was.” Dominic shakes his head at the price of a gorgeous silk scarf draped on a stand next to the counter. It’s probably missing a few digits, like everything else.

I look around for a moment, taking stock of the situation. “Okay. First I’ve got to go through the inventory and reprice everything. Then we need to look at the advertising budget—”

“Advertising?” Dominic snorts.

“Don’t tell me he was still relying only on word of mouth?”

Dominic lifts a shoulder. “Old dog. No new tricks.”

I drag my hands through my hair, knowing it’s gonna be a long night. “Can you drop my luggage off at the house for me? I’m not sure how late I’ll get back, and it’ll be easier for me to come in without all my stuff.”

Dominic hesitates, looking confused. “You’re not moving to another hotel?”

“Nope. I’m moving in with the marchesa.” His expression is so horrified I have to laugh. “It’s a long story. The bottom line is that I’ve decided I’m not selling Papa’s business. I’m going to stay here and run it.”

Dominic blinks slowly, standing stock-still behind the counter. “Is your husband moving here, too?”

God. How many times am I going to have to tell this story? “We broke up.”

He’s stunned. Apparently he also feels the need to ward away any evil I might be carrying because he makes the sign of the cross over his chest.

Annoyed, I walk past him and through the door leading to the production area in the back of the shop. It’s much messier back here, with bolts of cloth and color sketches strewn across work tables, dozens of mannequins in various stages of undress standing around like headless party guests, and sewing stations, file cabinets, and boxes waiting to be unpacked.

Pinned to a corkboard on the wall above a workstation hang photographs of me at various stages of my life. The latest one is a Polaroid from the last time I visited, five years ago. Papa had me laughing at some terrible joke he’d made and took the picture before I could stop him. My head is thrown back. My eyes are closed. My mouth is wide open. I look happy.

I’m seized by a terrible feeling of guilt. Five years. I spent that time trying to build my business and going gaga over Brad, and what was my father doing?

Slowly going broke and falling in love with a vulture.

So, samesies.

“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Dominic sounds rattled. He’s followed me in from the other room and stands in the doorway, looking disturbed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head and leave it at that.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but we’re interrupted by loud knocking from the front room. Someone’s at the door.

Not just anyone, I see as I move past Dominic into the front room.

Him.

I jerk open the door and glare at Matteo. “What’re you doing here?”

He smiles, looking me over with hungry eyes like I’m a cupcake on display in a bakery case and he’d like to lick off all my icing. “I was in the neighborhood and saw the lights on.”

“Liar.”

His smile deepens, dimpling his cheeks. “You know what they say. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“They also say you don’t have to be a cactus expert to know a prick when you see one.”

His eyes flash. “Is it just my d**k you’re obsessed with, or d***s in general?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. And while you’re busy not flattering yourself, leave.”

He purses his lips, as if he’s considering it. Then he says casually, “No,” and strolls past me into the shop.

I slam the door and turn to him with my arms crossed over my chest. “Oh, I get it. On the lookout for more designs to steal, is that it?” I smile sweetly at his withering look.

“You seem to have a mental block about the facts, so let me remind you that you gave me that sketch pad, bella.”

I hate the way goose bumps form over my arms when he calls me that. There’s something so intimate about it. A note of secret knowledge hums in it, an undertone of sensuality, as if he knows how I sound when I come.

“I’m not going over this with you again. Get out.”

“Oh. Ciao.” Ignoring my request, Matteo addresses Dominic, standing in the doorway to the back room.