Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3)

by J. T. Geissinger

  He cocks his head, studying me.

  “Oh, you’re going with the silent treatment? The last guy who did that to me ended up with a broken nose. You’ve been warned.”

  I chug my espresso, glaring over the rim of the tiny porcelain cup at the bartender, who never left and has been standing there the entire time, listening. She looks so scandalized that I’ve rebuffed Euro Hunk, I feel an explanation is in order. “He’s a paparazzi,” I tell her, jerking my chin at him.

  He says calmly, “The word paparazzi is plural.”

  I breathe in and out slowly, gripping the cup so hard it might shatter. “So is the word fists.”

  Sliding onto the stool next to mine, he addresses the gaping bartender. “I’ll take another Glenlivet, please. The lady will have another champagne.”

  The look on her face is priceless. Seriously, if I were Euro Hunk, I’d be taking pictures of her, not me.

  She turns and walks away, leaving me alone with my choking anger and an Italian hell-bent on humiliating me.

  “Wait.” I look him over. “You’re probably not even really Italian, are you?”

  He smiles, showing off a set of perfect white teeth. Then he says something in Italian.

  “That’s not proof of anything. If I started speaking Mandarin right now, it wouldn’t make me Chinese.”

  He lifts his dark brows. “You speak Mandarin?”

  “That’s not my point.”

  “So you’d like some other kind of proof?”

  I narrow my eyes at the suggestive tone in his voice. “Short of a DNA test, there’s nothing that can prove you’re Italian.”

  “Of course there is.”

  Grinding my jaw, I say, “Okay. I’ll play your silly little game. What would prove you’re Italian?”

  His voice drops an octave, and his blue eyes burn. “Have you ever made love with an Italian man?”

  I roll my eyes and exhale. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  He gifts me with that insanely sexy chuckle again. “Exactly.”

  The bartender returns, sets our drinks down, then stands there looking at us eagerly. I’m surprised she doesn’t pull up a chair. When I scowl at her, she moves two feet down the bar and pretends to polish the counter.

  “So,” says Euro Hunk, picking up his glass. “You’re being followed by the paparazzi.”

  More games. This guy is unbelievable. “Let’s just call them what they are: scum.”

  He brings the glass to his lips, tips back his head, and swallows. I watch his Adam’s apple bob and fight the urge to lick it.

  “Even scum has its uses.”

  I snort in disgust. “God, how do you sleep at night?”

  “Like a baby, thank you.”

  I glare at his perfect profile, willing his head to explode. Unfortunately, I haven’t recently gained any supernatural powers, so his dumb, pretty head stays intact.

  He slides the flute of champagne toward me, giving me a good view of his watch as the cuff of his shirt rides up over his wrist. Brad is a watch whore—“timepieces,” he insisted on calling his collection—so I’ve seen my fair share of ridiculously overpriced watches.

  The one Euro Hunk sports makes Brad’s look like kiddie prizes from a gumball machine.

  “This is an interesting outfit you’re wearing, Count. Pricey. Do you and your compatriots draw straws for the cashmere overcoat and the Patek Philippe, or is there like a schedule for who gets to wear the rich playboy disguise when you’re out stalking innocent people?”

  Very seriously, he says, “I’m not a count.”

  “Hello! Obviously!”

  “I’m a marchese.”

  His ruse is so stupid I can’t resist baiting him. “What is that, like a cheese?”

  His gaze drifts over my face, taking in all my features and my expression of disdain. With his eyes lingering on my mouth, he says, “It’s one rank above an earl.”

  I say drily, “Ah yes. One rank above an earl. Good place to be, I suppose.”

  “It’s also one rank below a duke, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “Oh, much.” Fuming, I drink my champagne. The nerve of this idiot, pretending to be a titled Italian supermodel. I should kick him in his balls. “How did you get into this lounge, anyway? Bat your baby blues at the lady at the front desk? Give her the ol’ razzle dazzle until her brain was a soggy mound of spaghetti? God, you must be really useful for all kinds of jobs. Hey—was it you who got past security at Paris Hilton’s New Year’s Eve party and got all those shots up her skirt?”

  “You are very charming,” he says in his formal English, smiling. “Very American. My mother would love you.”

  “Ha! I bet she would! Where is she, in a federal correctional facility?”

  For the first time, his face wears an expression that isn’t pleasant. He glowers at me, suddenly intimidating, and says something sharply in Italian.

  “Sorry, I didn’t get that.”

  “I said, ‘Do not disrespect my mother.’”

  Astonished, I stare at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Well, you’re dedicated to your job, I’ll give you that. You know, you should go into acting. Or modeling! You could make bank. My best friend is a male model, and it’s ridiculous how much—”

  “Why are you sad?”

  He might as well have stabbed me in the heart with a dagger for how much that hurts. My laughter dies, my throat closes, and the hot prick of tears comes to my eyes.

  “That’s just mean,” I whisper. “That’s just downright mean of you.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand—”

  “Leave me alone. Go away.”

  I can’t bear to look at him, so I stare at the tiny bubbles rising in my flute of champagne instead.

  After a moment, he quietly exhales, then rises. He murmurs another apology before walking away.

  I can’t believe I even spoke a word to him. He probably has the entire conversation on tape. These ruthless bastards have been following me for months, ever since my engagement to Brad was announced. “Kimberella Gets Her Prince,” one article sneered. The plucky, penniless seamstress marrying American royalty, the golden son of a political dynasty.

  Yeah, it’s a real Cinderella story all right. Except her prince wasn’t being forced by his father to marry on the threat of losing his inheritance.

  But the worst part, the absolute heart-smashing, soul-killing part, is that everyone knew but me.

  Everyone knew he gambled, and ran up huge debts on his father’s credit, and had women all over town. Everyone knew he was the biggest threat to his father’s political career and the family’s good name, and everyone knew Daddy had given him an ultimatum.

  Get married and settle down or be cut off.

  How convenient for Brad that I was so trusting and blind. And so desperately in love with him. I made it all so easy.

  Not everyone was convinced of my innocence, however. Several online articles theorized I knew all about Brad’s problems and had swooped in like a vulture to pick at the helpless corpse of his playboy days while stuffing my pockets with his money.

  As if I cared about his money. When I think of all the times I told him I loved him and he’d mumbled, “You too,” and looked away, it makes me sick.

  Screw love. And screw men. From now on, I’m focusing on work.

  But first I have to get to Italy.

  “No. That can’t be right. I have to be on this flight.”

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Unfortunately, the flight was oversold. Your seat has been given to another passenger. There’s really nothing I can do.”

  The woman in the red vest at the gate looks apologetic, I’ll give her that. But if she thinks I’m going to let her and her airline bump me off this flight, she’s nuts.

  I lean over the counter and say emphatically, “You’re not listening to me. I have to be on this flight.”

  “We can put you on standby for the next flight, which is . . .” She ch
ecks her computer screen. “Tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

  “Tomorrow? Are you kidding me?”

  For the first time in the few minutes since I was called over the loudspeaker to approach the gate agent, she begins to look uncomfortable.

  Reaching under the counter, she says, “Here’s a pamphlet regarding your rights—”

  “I don’t want your pamphlet. I want my seat.”

  She holds the folded paper out like a peace offering. “We can offer you denied boarding compensation in the form of cash, check, or vouchers for a future flight, but I cannot get you on this flight. I’m sorry.”

  Sweat dampens my underarms. My heart starts to thump, and my pulse skyrockets. Trying to maintain a demeanor of calm so I don’t get arrested by airport security, I say, “You don’t understand. My father is dying. If I have to wait until tomorrow to get on a flight to Italy, he might already be dead when I get there.”

  She loses patience with me and turns curt. “Miss, I have other customers I have to assist. I really can’t do anything for you except what I’ve already offered.”

  I think it’s being demoted from “ma’am” to “miss” that makes me snap. Or maybe it’s everything else I’ve been through over the past few days. Either way, I grip the edge of the counter and thunder, “My father is dying! I have to be on that flight!”

  “I understand you’re frustrated—”

  “No, I’m not frustrated, I’m angry! How can you just arbitrarily throw me off this plane? I paid for my ticket like everyone else! It’s not fair!”

  Her face flushes red. I feel bad for her because it’s not her fault the airline oversold the flight, but it is her job to deal with irate customers, and it’s also her job to make other arrangements for those irate customers when they’re getting fucked in the ass by her employer.

  Besides, she’s the one who wanted a job at this dickish airline. If she wanted to avoid awkward confrontations with distraught customers, she could’ve been a dog trainer.

  “You need to bump someone else off this flight—someone whose father didn’t suffer a massive heart attack in another country! There has to be some kind of consideration for emergency situations, right?”

  When her gaze turns stony, I plead, “Right?”

  “Please step away from the counter, miss.”

  I become aware of all the people in the gate waiting area, staring at me, at the same time I become aware of the security guard eyeing me from his post beside the boarding door.

  My anger turns to panic. Shit. This can’t be happening! My voice wavering and my eyes filling with tears, I say, “Please. I’m begging you. I haven’t seen my father in five years. He’s the only family I have left. I have to be there for him. I have to get on this flight. If he dies and I’m not there, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  The gate agent opens her mouth to shut me down, but a voice behind me says, “The lady can have my seat.”

  I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. I’d recognize that panty-melting accent anywhere.

  Plus, the gate agent looks as if she’s been electrocuted.

  “Oh, s-sir, that’s very kind of you. Are you sure?” She glances at me and frowns, clearly thinking I don’t deserve to even stand in Euro Hunk’s general vicinity, let alone be the recipient of this magnanimous gesture.

  “I’m sure.”

  He moves into view, coming around my left side to stand next to me. His arm brushes my shoulder, sending a rash of goose bumps cascading down my spine.

  “Let me see if I can arrange it. We do allow transfers in some cases. May I have your boarding pass, please?”

  Gazing down at me with a small smile, he pulls a boarding pass from the inside pocket of his overcoat and hands it to the gate agent, all without glancing away from my face.

  In a strangled voice, I ask, “You’re on this flight?”

  He inclines his head in a kingly nod.

  “You’re not a paparazzi?”

  “A paparazzo,” he corrects. “Not the last time I checked.”

  I turn to face him fully. “And, um, the count thing—”

  “Marchese.” His eyes are bright with laughter. “No, it’s not a cheese.”

  I put a hand over my chest and breathe, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Sir,” chirps the gate agent.

  Our gazes hold for a moment that feels like an eternity until he looks away from me and turns his attention to her. “Yes?”

  “This is a first-class ticket.”

  I look at her in shock. She stares back at me with her brows lifted, like We both know you don’t deserve first class, sister.

  “Yes, it is,” says Euro Hunk firmly. “Is there a problem?”

  She looks at me, then back at him, then plasters a big fake smile on her face. “Not at all, sir. Your identification, please?”

  He fishes a passport from another pocket of his coat and hands it over.

  “Madam, may I have your boarding pass and identification again, please?” The gate agent smiles sweetly at me.

  Unbelievable. I’ve been promoted to “madam.”

  In total disbelief, I watch the gate agent tap away on her keyboard, changing the reservations so I can get on the flight. I turn to find Euro Hunk gazing at me with that same laserlike intensity he had when I glanced up from my sketch pad and caught him staring.

  I say, “I can’t let you do this.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “It’s a wonderful gesture, but that ticket must’ve cost a fortune.”

  The gate agent decides it’s time to be helpful. “The full fare for a first-class nonstop flight to Florence is $10,608.”

  My jaw comes unhinged and hangs somewhere in the middle of my chest.

  Euro Hunk sees my horror and tries to make me feel better. “That’s the round-trip fare.”

  “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can pay you back for that. As much as I’d love to accept your generous offer, I can’t.”

  He tilts his head as if he’s considering something. His gaze drops to my carry-on. “Your sketch pad.”

  “What?” I’m so startled I say it too loudly, causing the gate agent to jump.

  “Your sketch pad. I’ll take it in trade for the ticket.”

  He says that like it’s a completely rational thing to barter a $10,000 ticket for and he fully expects me to hand it over without another thought. But what he doesn’t know is that my sketch pad doesn’t contain the doodles of a hobbyist.

  It contains the designs for my entire spring collection, which I was going to begin work on as soon as I returned from my honeymoon.

  The honeymoon might be off, but the collection isn’t—and I haven’t yet scanned the images into my computer.

  Which means that if I give Euro Hunk my sketch pad, those designs are gone forever.

  I tighten my grip on my carry-on and pull it behind my back. “That’s impossible.”

  A flash of irritation darkens his eyes, but they quickly regain their tropical-water tranquility. I can tell he isn’t used to hearing no, but he does his best to cover it up with a tight smile.

  “I see. Best of luck with your father.” He turns his attention to the gate agent, who’s watching our interaction as avidly as the bartender did. “It seems I won’t be needing to transfer the ticket after—”

  “Wait.” Panicked, I grab a handful of his plush coat sleeve.

  He looks down at me with a brow arched condescendingly.

  “Why would you want the pad? Isn’t there something else I can give you?”

  When his carnal smile makes a reappearance, I know how bad that sounded. I quickly backtrack. “That wasn’t a proposition.”

  “No? Pity.”

  We stare at each other, our gazes locked. The heat in his eyes is unmistakable. With a sinking feeling in my chest, I realize I have to make a choice between prostituting myself and losing my spring collection.

  My panic turns into full-blown hysteria.

&nb
sp; Inside my body, a tug-of-war breaks out between my hormones, my brain, and my moral compass, which—if I’m being totally honest—is the first one to lose the fight.

  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 penis 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 penis.

  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 shit, 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.