Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3)

by J. T. Geissinger

  “Exactly.”

  “I think you’re a bit of both, but what I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted is that I love you.”

  “I know,” I whisper, trying not to sound too teary and broken. “I love you, too.”

  “Oh, Poppins. It gets better. I promise.”

  “You sound like one of those PSAs for teen suicide.”

  “Call me anytime you need a pep talk, yes? And I’m serious about the funeral. Say the word and I’m there.”

  We say our goodbyes and hang up.

  Then I go back to my sketches. If Jenner won’t help me steal Matteo’s thunder, I’ll just have to find someone else who will.

  At eight o’clock that night, I stumble bleary-eyed and starving out of the taxi and into the house. The door’s open, so I let myself in.

  Right in the middle of family dinner time.

  At the formal dining table sit the marchesa, Cornelia, and Beans. They all look up when I walk in.

  “Buonasera,” says the marchesa, setting her fork down.

  She’s resplendent in a black silk suit. It sets off her pale hair and skin and makes her cyborg eyes glow like the Terminator’s. She looks as if she’s about to execute someone. To her left, Beans sits in her booster seat, trembling with malice. To her right, Cornelia is creeping down under the table with big scaredy-cat eyes, trying to be invisible.

  At the other end of the table sits Matteo, lounging in his chair like the king of the universe.

  He smiles, looks me up and down with a starkly sexual gaze, and winks.

  It’s a challenge. He’s throwing down. He wants to see how I’ll handle him hanging out here. I’d bet a million bucks he’s hoping I’ll throw a fit.

  Without a shred of emotion in my voice or on my face, I say to the marchesa, “I realized I didn’t tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I’m moving in.”

  She delicately pats her lips with her napkin, leaving her lipstick undisturbed, then smooths the napkin over her lap. “I assumed that when Dominic brought your luggage back yesterday.”

  That’s it? I wait for her to say something else, but she just gazes at me with that unnerving calm of hers.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Matteo cover his mouth with his hand. He’s trying not to laugh. I’m sure there’s steam visibly shooting from my ears, but I force myself to stay under control.

  “I took my room back. Cornelia will have to share with Beans from now on.”

  At the mention of her name, Cornelia whimpers quietly from under the table. I swear that giant dog is nothing but a giant wimp.

  “I’m sure we’ll make do.” The marchesa picks up her fork and resumes eating.

  When it becomes obvious that was the end of the conversation, I say, “Okay, then. Great talk.”

  Fuming, I leave the dining room and head straight to the kitchen. I know there are soups, stews, and all kinds of other food brought over by Papa’s friends, but right now I need something else. I rummage through the cabinets until I find what I’m looking for, then grab a bottle of whiskey and pour myself a drink.

  What could Papa have seen in her? She’s so cold! Sleeping with her would be like sleeping with an ice block! Inside an igloo! In the middle of a blizzard in Antarctica!

  I finish the drink and pour myself another. I can’t believe she didn’t ask me a single question. No How long will you be staying? No What’s your plan for the business? No nothing!

  Actually that might be better. I mull it over, finally deciding that yes, it will definitely be better if she doesn’t ask questions. She obviously doesn’t want to get to know me, and I definitely don’t want to get to know her. We’ll just stay out of each other’s hair. I can do my thing and she can do hers.

  Whatever her thing might be. Probably casting evil spells on the villagers.

  “Working late, were you?”

  Matteo strolls into the kitchen, smirking, looking like a god in a perfectly fitted midnight-blue suit and white dress shirt open at the collar.

  “None of your business.” I wish I knew a few of his mother’s evil spells. I’d give him a hairy wart on the end of his nose and a hump on his back to tear down that ego a few notches.

  Standing next to the wooden table, he slowly unbuttons his suit jacket, casually fingering it open until it parts under his hand. He slides it off, drapes it over the back of a chair, unhooks his cuff links, sets them on the table, and rolls up the cuffs of his shirt, staring at me the whole time.

  I can’t look away. It’s like porn. You know you shouldn’t watch it, but you can’t stop.

  Tailored suits were made for bodies like his. Everything about him is elegant, proportionate, finely made. He’s muscular but not overly so, strong but not bulky. His skin is golden and poreless. It looks airbrushed. He’s got cheekbones even Jenner would be jealous of, and a jawline so sharp it could cut glass.

  The man is haute couture.

  And my God, those eyes. Achingly blue, hauntingly sensual, they’re the kind of eyes a woman never forgets. The kind of eyes you could drown in.

  The kind of eyes that could ruin your life.

  I guzzle the rest of my drink, coughing when the fumes sear my nose. “You need to start having these cheerful little family dinners at your house.”

  “Oh? Is that what I need?”

  Smiling like he has a secret, Matteo strolls over to the cupboard, gets a glass, and pours himself a measure of whiskey. Then he leans against the counter and gazes at me, all lord of the manor and king of the hill, setting every nerve I own on edge.

  “I don’t want to have to deal with you every time I get home from work.”

  “Deal with me? Interesting choice of words. Brings to mind some kind of punishment.”

  When his smile turns smoldering, I’ve had enough.

  I set my glass down with a clatter on the counter and level him my most lethal look. “I don’t want you here, all right? Is that clear enough for you? I don’t like you, I don’t trust you, and I want you to stay out of my house.”

  The fleeting frown that crosses his face is quickly replaced by a sharky smile that would make his mother proud. “Perhaps we can negotiate.”

  I sigh heavily, overwhelmed by so many different emotions I can’t pick one to focus on. I’m a melting pot of feelings. I’m goo. “Please. Just go. I can’t do this right now.”

  His look sharpens. “What’s wrong? Did something happen today?”

  Is he kidding? “Leave,” I say firmly, staring him down.

  “You haven’t heard my offer yet.”

  I’m about to stupidly ask, “What offer?” but snap my mouth closed just in time. I fold my arms over my chest and clamp my lips together.

  Matteo drifts closer, swirling his drink. “But I suppose if you’re not interested in getting your sketch pad back, we can forget about it.”

  I freeze. My neck goes hot, the flush slowly creeping up into my face. “You already said you’re using my designs in your new collection, so it doesn’t make a difference if I get the sketch pad back or not.”

  “Is that what I said?” His gaze is piercing. The faintest of smiles plays at the corners of his lips.

  He’s toying with me, like a cat with a mouse.

  Except I’m no mouse. I’m a motherfucking lion.

  “I’m not playing this game with you,” I say, staring him right in the eye. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit. I want you to get the hell out of my house and stay out. If you don’t, I’ll call the police. I own this property. Not your mother, me. If I don’t want you here, that means you’re trespassing.”

  He’s still for a moment, just looking at me, then he exhales. With quiet intensity, he says, “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

  My laugh is small and bitter. “I have a lot of experience with lying playboys. You can take your fake compliment and stick it up your ass with your fake kiss.”

  His jaw flexes. He says something in Italian, his v
oice husky, his eyes on my mouth.

  I wish my heart would stop doing that thing it does whenever he looks at me like that. I’m determined to hate him, and all this fluttery butterfly bullshit going on inside my chest is really starting to annoy me.

  “I’ll tell you what.” He goes over to the opposite counter, where a pad of paper and a cup of pens sit beside a telephone. He scribbles something on a piece of paper, folds it in half, then walks back to me and holds it out. “If you decide you’d like to hear my offer, here’s my number. If you don’t”—he shrugs—“I won’t bring it up again.”

  I look at the piece of paper in his hand with my nose wrinkled, but say nothing.

  He sets the paper on the counter, walks over to the chair where he draped his coat, and picks it up. He slings it over his shoulder.

  On his way out the door, he says over his shoulder, “For the record, it wasn’t a compliment. It was a question.”

  I shout after him, “When are you going to do us all a favor and jump off a building?”

  His dark chuckle is the single most infuriating thing I’ve heard in my life.

  SIXTEEN

  I come awake in stages. It’s early, probably just after dawn. Gray light filters between a crack in the drapes. The room is quiet and cool, which makes the heat at my back all the more strange.

  I turn my head and find a giant black head on the pillow next to mine.

  Cornelia’s mouth is open. She’s gently snoring, her long pink tongue lolling out of her mouth onto the pillow. One of her paws is draped over my side.

  The damn dog is spooning me!

  Trying not to startle her so I don’t accidentally get mauled, I quietly say, “Yo, dog.”

  She doesn’t wake up. I nudge her in the belly with my elbow.

  Nothing. This animal sleeps like the dead.

  A little louder, I say, “Wakey-wakey, Cornelia.”

  Her big black eyes flutter open. She blinks slowly, then cracks open her massive jaws and yawns in my face.

  Ugh. Dog breath. Grimacing, I wave my hand in front of my nose. “Thanks for that.”

  She falls perfectly still. Her eyes go wide. She looks at me with an expression of terror, as if she just realized who I am and where she is.

  “Don’t freak out,” I say gently. “I’m not gonna yell at you.”

  She looks at her paw slung over my waist, looks guiltily back at me, then slowly withdraws her leg.

  It’s adorable. So of course I feel bad. “Did Beans kick you out of her room?”

  Cornelia buries her face in the pillow.

  “Yeah. She’s a real meanie, that one.”

  Cornelia’s log of a tail starts to wag, tentatively at first, until after a few seconds it’s thumping the mattress so hard the bed jiggles.

  I have a terrible feeling I’m going to be waking up next to this horse every day from now on, and sigh. “Okay, dog. We’ll be friends. But we’re not sleeping together. I’ll get you a proper doggie bed. Deal?”

  Cornelia gets so excited I think she might pee herself. She leaps up onto all fours, wriggling like a puppy, panting and pawing at the covers, raining slobber onto my face.

  “Gross.” I wipe my face with the sheets and flip off the covers. Cornelia jumps off the bed and waits in the corner, watching me with worry as I yawn and stretch. When I stand, she turns in a circle, knocking over a floor lamp. She’s so frantic with excitement she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

  I look at her sternly and point at the floor. “Sit.”

  She promptly falls down and plays dead.

  “That’ll do. Good dog.”

  I head into the bathroom and take a shower, wondering how I’m going to make it through this day.

  The funeral is at eleven o’clock.

  The only black clothing I brought with me is a pair of slacks. I had no thoughts of funeral wardrobes when I was packing in San Francisco. I have a gray cashmere sweater that will have to do for a top, but I don’t have heels, and there’s no time to go out and buy anything.

  I would’ve altered one of the dresses at my father’s shop, but none of them were black. He always said a woman should never wear black unless she was grieving because it leeched all the color from her skin.

  Papa.

  Grief passes through me in a wave so strong it leaves me breathless. I have to flatten my hand against the shower wall to steady myself. I swallow hard, again and again, until the sob that wants to break from my throat subsides. Then I promise myself I’ll hold it together until I can be alone again. I refuse to break down in front of the WS.

  Or him.

  I turn off the water and dry off. After I’m finished blow drying my hair, I go back into the bedroom. Cornelia’s gone, but something new has appeared that makes me stop in shock.

  Laid out on the bed is a dress. It’s black, made of stiff silk organza overlaid with lace. It’s knee length, with a sweetheart neckline, a nipped waist, a full skirt, and a matching jacket.

  I don’t have to look at the tag to recognize it’s Dior couture.

  “I thought you might need something to wear.”

  The marchesa stands in the doorway of my bedroom. She’s pale and somber in a housecoat and slippers, both black. Her hair is down, and she doesn’t have any makeup on. Dark shadows lurk in the hollows beneath her eyes.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen her look like a human being.

  I don’t know what else to say except, “Thank you.”

  She gazes at the dress. “It was my mother’s. Dior, circa 1950s.”

  “The New Look,” I murmur, unsure how to act. She’s being nice to me!

  “Yes. My mother loved French couture. It was all she wore. This dress was only worn once.” She glances up at me. “To my father’s funeral.”

  Okay, that is totally fucking weird. “Um . . .”

  “You’re a size six, correct?”

  I nod.

  “It should fit perfectly. Your figures are very similar.”

  I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear it? I mean, it has sentimental value for you, so . . .”

  “I’m too broad in the shoulders, and my waist hasn’t been that small since before Matteo was born.” Her eyes grow distant, as if she’s lost in some old memory. “After she died, I donated all her clothing to the haute couture exhibition at the Palais Galliera. She had the most incredible collection. Practically priceless, by today’s standards. This one I kept because the one time she wore it was the only time in my life I ever saw her cry.”

  Her voice grows quiet and sad. “She hated to show emotions. She said it was undignified. Weak. Whenever I cried as a child, I’d get a beating.”

  Our eyes meet across the room. The silence pounds between us, deafeningly loud.

  Then she turns on her heel and disappears.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and rest my hand on the dress, which isn’t really a dress but an olive branch.

  I can already tell this is going to be one hell of a day.

  I’m in the kitchen with Lorenzo, nervously waiting for the limo to pick us up, when Matteo arrives.

  He walks into the room and all the air goes out.

  It’s not fair that someone should be so beautiful. The light treats him differently than it does the rest of us, caressing the bones in his face, adding a loving sheen to his hair. He’s wearing a gorgeous black suit and tie, black shoes polished to a mirror gleam, and a chunky silver watch that probably cost more than my college education.

  His expression is somber. So is his voice when he says hello.

  “Hey.” I look at my fingernails, in dire need of a manicure. I decide this is the last time I’ll let him in this house without calling the cops, and almost mean it.

  Lorenzo murmurs a greeting, then we’re all silent.

  Finally Matteo says, “Has she come down yet?”

  “No,” answers Lorenzo. “She’s not ready.”

  I glance up in
time to see the two of them share a strange, meaningful look, which irritates me because I don’t understand it.

  “You’re in the limo with us, Lorenzo.”

  His eyes widen. “Oh no, signorina, that wouldn’t be proper. I will drive behind.”

  I say flatly, “Family rides in the limo. You’re riding in the limo.”

  I get the feeling he doesn’t want to contradict me, so he looks to Matteo for help. But Matteo simply inclines his head in agreement.

  Lorenzo implores him in Italian, in answer to which Matteo waves a dismissive hand. Then he flicks an inscrutable gaze in my direction and says a few curt, quiet words.

  I really have to learn that damn language.

  When the doorbell rings, I stand, my heart thumping. “It’s time.”

  Lorenzo says, “I’ll get Lady Moretti,” but Matteo quickly puts the kibosh on that.

  “No. Wait for us outside.”

  He walks out of the room, leaving Lorenzo and me alone. He offers his arm. “Signorina.”

  Outside, we’re greeted by the limo driver, a small man with black hair and a nose the size of a cabbage. I get in, but Lorenzo stands outside, waiting.

  And waiting.

  It’s ten minutes before the marchesa arrives with Matteo, and by then my ears are burning with anger. I can’t believe she’d make us all wait for her, today of all days. What could she be doing, anyway? Drinking champagne? Then Matteo assists her into the limo and I see her face, and my anger vanishes.

  She looks stricken. She’s as white as a sheet. Her hands are shaking. She swallows and looks out the window, avoiding my eyes.

  Matteo instructs Lorenzo to sit beside her, then he climbs in beside me on the long bench seat opposite them. I feel him looking at me, but I won’t look back. As the driver shuts the doors, Matteo reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  He doesn’t let go until we arrive at the church.

  The church is three hundred years old, and so is the priest.

  I sit beside the marchesa in the front pew, staring at my father’s casket. On my other side is Matteo, and on his other side is Lorenzo. Dominic kneels in the pew on the other side of the aisle, his head bent in prayer.

  All the pews are full, which isn’t surprising. My father was always the most popular person wherever he went. Outgoing, kind, with a permanent smile, he made friends everywhere.