Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3)

by J. T. Geissinger

  It’ll be gone soon, anyway. I can’t afford this place on my own. When the first of the month rolls around, I won’t be moving into the charming Victorian in Ashbury Heights that Brad bought for us. I’ll be moving into the back room of my shop until I can find a studio. Somewhere cheap, out of the city. Preferably underground, so I don’t have to face people.

  “The Jilted Dressmaker!” one headline screamed.

  I’ve been reduced to a cheesy made-for-TV movie.

  “Danielle texted me that she made it home safe. She wanted to know how you were holding up.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “I lied and said you were doing fine. I knew if I didn’t, she and those boobs of hers would turn around and get right back on a plane.” He makes a retching sound. “How anyone could move to Cleveland after growing up in San Fran is beyond me. Ohio is the Florida of the Midwest.”

  “You’re a terrible snob.”

  “Merci. When are you going to call your father?”

  I groan, burying my face in the pillow. When I think of all the money my father sent me for the wedding, I want to die. The fabric for the gowns alone cost thousands.

  My voice is muffled by the pillow when I speak. “He thinks I’m on my honeymoon. I’ve got another eleven days before I have to call him.”

  “Unless he sees the pictures online.”

  I consider that, but decide the likelihood that my technology-challenged father will be near enough to a computer to glimpse evidence of his only child being roundly mocked by the crème de la crème of San Francisco society is close to nil. I sent him a Kindle for Christmas one year, and he wanted to know how to open it. He thought it was a really flat book.

  “Tell me again why we didn’t go on your honeymoon like the girls did in Sex and the City after Carrie got dumped by Big at the altar?”

  “Because two weeks at a dude ranch in Montana was Brad’s idea of bliss, not mine. And you know very well Carrie didn’t get dumped at the altar. She got dumped over the phone at the church before she had to walk down the aisle.”

  Lucky bitch.

  Sounding wistful, Jenner sighs. “Au contraire. Two weeks at a dude ranch sounds like absolute heaven, darling. Just think—all those cowboys. And their lassos. Oh my.”

  When I look up at him, he’s fanning his face with the empty bag of chips.

  “No. No cowboys. No boys of any kind, for that matter. I don’t care if I never see another man for the rest of my life!”

  Jenner stops fanning and quirks his brows. “You do realize I’m the proud owner of a penis, yes?”

  “You don’t count.”

  “Ouch!”

  “You know what I mean!” I flop back into the pillow, but pop back up when I hear a knock on the front door.

  Jenner and I look at each other. My heart starts to pound. The knock comes again, this time louder.

  Half-terrified and half-furious, I whisper, “Do you think it’s Brad?”

  Very droll, Jenner says, “I rather doubt it, darling, since he has a key. He’s probably still picking bits of cartilage out of his teeth, anyway.” As the knocking continues, Jenner sits up and looks toward the door. “Do you want me to get it?”

  “Why are they knocking and not ringing the bell?” For some reason, that strikes me as an ominous sign. What kind of person would rather pound a fist on the door over and over than press a nice civilized button?

  “I’ll just go look through the peephole and see who it is.”

  Before I can protest, Jenner has glided out of the room. In a moment, his voice drifts down the hallway. “It appears to be a courier. Should I open up?”

  A courier? More likely another member of the paparazzi trying to snap a candid picture of the senator’s poor, cast-off daughter-in-law-to-never-be.

  My curiosity gets the better of me. I trot barefoot to the front door in my ice cream–stained sweats and push Jenner aside so I can press my face against the door and look through the peephole.

  Sure enough, it’s a uniformed courier, holding a small envelope and a clipboard.

  I whisper, “Do you think it’s a trap? Like is that really a guy from TMZ and that clipboard is a camera?”

  “Oh, yes,” says Jenner, his voice dripping sarcasm. “The infamous clipboard camera. I hear they’re all the rage these days.”

  “What about the guy yesterday who knocked on the door and said he was from the electric company but turned out to be a journalist from The Examiner wanting to know if the reports that I was suicidal were true?”

  Jenner purses his lips. “You have a point.”

  “I know I do!”

  Jenner sighs. “If this is a man trying to take your picture to sell to the tabloids, I’ll divest him of his testicles. Happy?” He sweeps me out of the way and pulls open the door. “Hello. How may I help you?”

  “Got a package for Miss DiSanto.” The courier looks Jenner up and down. “That you?”

  It would be a ridiculous question, but considering Jenner is wearing my fuzzy purple bathrobe and a long red wig I bought for Halloween a few years ago that he dug out of my closet, it’s a legitimate question.

  Jenner is prettier than most women I know. Strike that—all the women I know.

  “Although that has a lovely ring to it,” says Jenner, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that I’m not, in fact, Miss DiSanto.” He points to me. “Here is the lady in question.” He pauses. “And I’m using the term lady loosely, mind you.”

  The courier thrusts the envelope at me. When I take it, he shoves the clipboard at me and says, “Sign on number twelve.”

  I sign, the courier leaves, and Jenner closes the door. Then I rip open the thin cardboard envelope and look inside. There’s another envelope, this one square and ivory. On the outside my full name is written in scratchy black ink, the handwriting slanting and loopy.

  Peering over my shoulder, Jenner says, “Ooh. Fancy. Do you think it’s an invitation to a ball?”

  “Ha.” I tear open the glued flap, withdraw the piece of thick note paper inside, and read aloud, “I have been unable to reach you. Come at once. Your father is gravely ill.”

  The card flutters to the floor as I tear off down the hallway, headed for the phone.

  On the best of days, San Francisco International Airport is a nightmare. But on the day you’re desperately trying to get to Italy before your father dies, it’s absolute hell.

  By the time I’m smashed into my economy seat between a three-hundred-pound woman with a crying baby on her lap and a college student with a head cold and a tattoo on the back of his left hand that reads Fuck the police, I’ve been in a fender bender that almost made me miss the flight, been jostled by irate travelers and smacked by carry-ons too many times to count, and endured a grueling second-tier screening from a hostile TSA agent who seemed convinced I was hiding contraband in a bodily orifice.

  The earliest flight out I could book has a layover in New York. When my flight arrives at JFK, I stumble bleary-eyed from the plane in search of coffee and extra-strength hand sanitizer.

  Whatever bug that college student had, it produced a lot of phlegm.

  I’m just about to get at the back of the long line at Starbucks when I spot a discreet silver plaque on the wall next to an elevator across the corridor from where I’m standing. It reads Centurion Lounge.

  Sweet Jesus, it’s an American Express members’ lounge!

  I run so fast to that elevator I almost trample a family of four in my rush. Ignoring the father’s grumble of displeasure, I stab my finger on the elevator call button. My mouth salivates at the thought of the oasis of luxury and tranquility I’m about to enjoy, thanks to Satan.

  My shiny new platinum card in the name of Mrs. Bradley Hamilton Wingate arrived in the mail only last week.

  The woman at the check-in desk smiles pleasantly, sweeps the card through a reader to confirm I’m a member, then says, “Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Wingate. All food and beverages in the lounge
are complimentary. You’re welcome to take advantage of the massage and facial services offered in the private spa room near the back. Those are also complimentary.”

  I want to kiss her.

  She tells me to enjoy my stay, and I wander out of the check-in area into a large, attractively decorated room. Seating areas, tables, and comfortable-looking chairs dot the carpeted floor. A bar dominates one end of the space. Beside it stretches a buffet where a few travelers browse, holding plates. Classical music plays softly on hidden speakers, and I’m in heaven.

  I drop into a big comfy armchair beside the wall of windows that overlooks the runways. Onto the chair next to me, I deposit my carry-on, coat, and handbag. A smiling waitress approaches with a tray of drinks.

  “Champagne, ma’am?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I take the flute from her hands with near-religious gratitude, like she’s offered me the Holy Grail. I proceed to guzzle the contents in one go, then slump down in the chair and exhale a huge, exhausted sigh.

  Which is when I spot him.

  He’s so breath-stealingly beautiful I think I must be hallucinating. That’s literally my first thought when I glimpse the god striding toward the bar—I’m hallucinating. I must be, because not only is he masculine perfection personified, it appears he’s moving in slow motion.

  Either his beauty has changed the laws of physics or there was something funny in that champagne.

  He’s tall and dark haired, with that unstudied, aristocratic elegance certain men are born with. I decide he’s European. I’m not sure which is more gorgeous, his face or his outfit. In stark contrast to all the other travelers in the lounge, who are dressed for comfort, he looks as if he stepped off a fashion show runway.

  His bespoke navy blue suit is molded perfectly to his muscular body. The collar of his dress shirt is so white it glows, setting off the gorgeous olive hue of his skin. A cashmere overcoat the color of butterscotch hangs from his broad shoulders. I catch a glimpse of a silk pocket square, a chunky silver watch, and a pair of shoes that look made from the kind of buttery soft leather you want to rub your cheek against.

  The urge to throw myself at his feet and nuzzle his loafers seizes me.

  I watch as he approaches the bar and says something to the bartender. Polishing a glass, she turns, catches sight of him, and freezes. Her eyes bulge.

  Euro Hunk must get that a lot.

  He has to repeat himself twice before the poor woman finds the presence of mind to respond. Then she pours him a drink, hands it to him with a shaky hand and an even shakier smile, and starts blinking as if she’s trying to signal someone for help.

  I’d laugh, but I feel sorry for her. The man is too stunning for words, let alone rational behavior.

  He takes a swallow of the amber liquid in his glass, then turns and sweeps his gaze over the room.

  I quickly look away. Although I’m a pathetic jilted bride who’s the laughingstock of the internet, I still have enough pride not to be caught drooling at a stranger.

  No other female in sight has such scruples. I’ve never seen so many gaping people in my life. Even some of the men are staring in awe.

  My fascination with Euro Hunk fizzles as fast as it came.

  This guy makes Brad look like Homer Simpson—and Brad’s gorgeous. So if Brad’s ego and self-confidence were at stratospheric levels, I can’t even imagine what a pompous, conceited ass Euro Hunk must be. He’s probably got a woman in every city around the globe.

  I decide I hate him.

  Him and his perfect hair and his superhero’s jaw and his stupid cashmere overcoat.

  Who even wears one of those, anyway? What is he, a count? Actually, he does look like he could be a count. I bet he’s totally entitled. I bet he has twelve mistresses and is cheap with his servants and beats his dog.

  Like they do when I’m irritated, my lips pinch into the dried-prune shape that used to get on Brad’s last nerve. When I look up again, Euro Hunk is staring straight at me with intense scrutiny.

  Shit.

  With as much nonchalance as I can muster, I turn to the chair beside mine and dig through my carry-on for my sketch pad and pencil. Without lifting my gaze above my lap, I start to sketch. It’s something I’ve done since I was a little girl, and it never fails to calm and focus me.

  Within moments, the lines of a beautiful gown are taking shape. Mermaid shaped, it’s skin revealing but chic, with a low scoop back, elaborate crystal-and-seed-pearl embellishments on the shoulder straps and bodice, and a long French-lace train.

  I stop abruptly, horrified to realize I’m drawing my own wedding dress.

  From behind me, a man says, “Che bella. You’re very talented.”

  God, his voice. My panties erupt into flames.

  As rich and buttery soft as his shoes, his voice also has a slight Italian accent that manages to sound suave and sexual at the same time. I bet he could make me orgasm just by whispering the phone book in my ear.

  But I hate him, so forget that.

  I say coolly, “Thank you,” and try to project a haughty don’t-disturb-me-you-perfect-stupid-dog-beating-Euro-jerk vibe. It doesn’t work.

  “Are you an artist?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm.”

  I keep sketching, ignoring him, waiting for him to walk away. He doesn’t take the hint. I grow more and more uncomfortable as he stands watching my hand move over the page.

  Why isn’t he saying anything? Why doesn’t he leave? What the hell is that delicious cologne he’s wearing? Holy shit, is my mouth watering?

  Cursing myself for my stupidity, I swallow and sketch faster.

  “It needs ruching in the small of the back.” He leans over my chair and taps his long, elegant finger on my sketch pad. “Here.”

  Though I was about to add the ruching—which the real dress has—I’m so aggravated by his presumption that I care about his opinion that I scribble a big ugly bow instead.

  He chuckles.

  The sound is so sexy all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  I stuff my sketch pad back into my carry-on, grab my handbag and coat, and launch myself from the chair. Without looking back, I head over to the bar and install myself on a stool, dropping all my stuff at my feet. I order an espresso from the bartender who was robbed of speech by Euro Hunk’s beauty, then prop my elbows on the bar top and rest my aching head in my hands.

  “I’ve offended you.”

  I jerk my head up. The Italian stallion stands beside me, gazing down at me with eyes the exact color of the water on the tiny island in Bali where I wanted to honeymoon with Brad—clear, brilliant aquamarine. They’re rimmed with a thicket of lashes so lush and black I want to smack him.

  He says, “How?”

  I draw my eyebrows together, squinting at him because he’s blinding me with his stupid, perfect face. Then he repeats himself, just in case my uterus didn’t already explode.

  “How have I offended you?”

  Your beauty offends me. The effect you have on women offends me. The fact that you own a penis offends me. You, sir, are a man—the epitome of a man—and therefore I hate your guts.

  I say, “I don’t speak English,” and drop my head back into my hands.

  “Really?” he muses. “Odd—you seemed to understand me a few moments ago. Let me try again.”

  He repeats his question in French. Then German, then Italian, then Spanish. When I don’t respond, he says it in a language I don’t recognize but that could be Dutch.

  Now he’s just showing off.

  I lift my head and level him with my most lethal stare. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  He doesn’t even blink. “Ah. You are a lesbian.”

  “No, Count Egotistico, I’m not a lesbian! I’m just not in the mood for conversation, okay?”

  “Okay.” His gaze drops to my mouth, and his voice drops an octave. “What are you in the mood for?”

  I want to be furious. I want to be o
utraged. I want to slap him across the face. However, a thermonuclear blast has detonated between my legs, so all I can do is stare at him for a moment as a scalding wave of heat envelops me, and my nipples start to tingle.

  Finally, when his full, sculpted lips lift into a carnal smile—because he obviously sees the effect he’s having on me—the anger I’d hoped for makes an appearance.

  Holding his gaze, I say through gritted teeth, “You arrogant, stuck-up, cocky, self-important, sexist peacock. You wanna know what I’m in the mood for?” I lean closer to him. “Murder.”

  If I hoped that psychotic little speech would turn him off, I’m wrong. His eyes flare, his carnal smile turns absolutely filthy, and he produces another chuckle that makes the bartender, who’s arrived with my espresso, emit a tiny gurgle of lust.

  Staring intently into my eyes, he says softly, “Yes, bella. I want you, too.”

  THREE

  For a moment, my mind wipes blank. If someone asked me my name, I wouldn’t know it.

  Then a light bulb goes on over my head, and I realize what’s happening.

  “Oh, I get it.” My laugh is so acidic it could corrode steel. “You’re hilarious, pal. Very funny.” I peer at his silk pocket square. “Where’s the camera hidden? In there? Or is it one of the buttons on your jacket?”

  I lean into his chest and say deliberately to the top button on his suit, “Go fuck yourself.”

  He doesn’t even have the good manners to look embarrassed that I’ve caught him. He simply watches me with a look of amusement in those blistering aquamarine eyes, like he’s waiting to see what strange and adorable thing I’ll do next.

  I wave my hand dismissively. “Off with you. I don’t have time for this shit.”

  “Which shit is that? Being desired by a man?”

  I glare at him. Now I’m getting really mad. “Look. You’ve had your fun. You’ve got your pictures, or your video, now you can go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under and post all that crap online so everyone can laugh at me some more. And just for the record, I can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to find out my itinerary and stalk me all the way to New York. I swear to God, if any of your buddies are waiting for me when I get off my next flight, I’ll cut a bitch.”