Her soft sigh is full of pain. “Since we’re being so open, I have to tell you it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It nearly killed me to stay away, but that’s what he wanted. So I honored my promise.”
“And I yelled at you for it,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.
Her voice turns gentle. “Oh, my dear. You didn’t know.”
“I nicknamed you the WS,” I blurt as if it’s a murder confession. “For Wicked Stepmother.”
She chuckles. “That’s rather clever, isn’t it? I do enjoy a good nickname.”
Definitely drinking.
She says, “You’ll be wanting to know about Matteo, of course. He’s dreadfully in love with you.”
I almost spit out my mouthful of wine. Instead I gulp it down, gasping. “Uh—”
“It’s been giving me such delight watching him try to manage it. He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, as you no doubt know.” She chuckles again. “That runs in the family, I’m afraid.”
Wine. Drink more wine. That’s the only rational thing to do. I obey myself and guzzle.
“When you came in the other night at dinner, he was asking my advice on how to court you. Isn’t that sweet? So old-fashioned. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he really doesn’t have much luck with women.” She laughs. “Always trying to be so macho. He’s like his father that way. Can’t stand to be seen as weak. The ego! Ha! It’s their Achilles’ heel.”
I drop my head to the table and proceed to repeatedly smack my forehead against the wood.
His face. Oh God, his face when I asked him what he was talking about with his mother. I’ll have to get down on my knees when I beg him to forgive me.
“Speaking of ego, he’s also terribly vain. Terribly. His morning routine takes a lifetime. The hair products alone . . .” She exhales, a great gust of air that conveys affection along with disappointment.
“He told me about Maria. About how you always had to have a Great Dane in the house so he would never forget how he refused to come in and see his father on his sickbed before he died.”
There’s a long awful pause, in which I imagine I can feel how much I’ve hurt her with my words.
“That’s what he thinks? That I was punishing him? I thought it would comfort him to have the same breed as Maria around. He and that dog were so close.”
I groan. “Oh crap.”
“Indeed,” agrees the marchesa. “It seems all of us have been operating under false assumptions.”
I polish off the last of the wine in my glass. “One last question.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know why my father didn’t tell me about you?”
“I asked him to wait until we could meet face to face.”
That startles me so much I freeze. “Why would you do that?”
She says softly, “Because you’d never had a mother, and I’d never had a daughter. I thought . . . it’s silly, I know, but I thought we could both get what we’d always been missing at the same time. You’d arrive after your honeymoon and we’d meet, and we’d all be one big happy family. I had a big party planned. Like a surprise party.” Her voice grows tight. “I’m sorry, it all seems so stupid now.”
Tears roll down my cheeks. Big fat tears of sorrow and joy.
After I get done kicking my own butt for all the ways I’ve misjudged her, I’m going to give this woman a hug.
“It’s not stupid. It’s lovely. I’m sorry it didn’t work out like you wanted.”
Her laugh is small and sad. “That’s life, I’m afraid. It keeps interrupting all our wonderful plans.”
“I think I owe Matteo a big apology.”
“Why? Did you insult his hair?”
“It’s worse than that, I’m afraid.”
She turns practical. “Just compliment his hair. It goes a long way, believe me. Anything else can be solved with a kiss.”
I laugh, but I’m still crying, and holy guacamole my life is a mess.
I think it’s going to be okay, though. Somehow I think everything’s all going to turn out just fine.
When the taxi driver pulls up to the curb outside the main gate of Castello di Moretti, I’m out of the car before it slows to a complete stop and pressing my finger impatiently on the button of the call box.
A crackle comes through the speaker, then Matteo says, “Kimber.”
I can tell by the tone in his voice I’m going to be groveling well into tomorrow morning.
“Yes, it’s me.” Grinning, I wave at the small camera mounted high on the stone wall, waiting for the gate to swing open.
Nothing happens.
Frowning, I press the button again. “Matteo? Hello?”
The following pause is so long the seed of worry in my stomach flowers into a bloom of terror the size of the Bermuda Triangle.
He’s not going to let me in!
Finally the gate opens with a rusty metal groan, and I can breathe again. I push through the space between the two halves of wrought iron as soon as there’s enough room to do so without injuring myself, then sprint past the sunken cloisters, the rolling green lawns, and the fountain lit in purple and blue lights, until I’m inside the first row of stone arches that encircle the courtyard.
I start to panic in earnest when Matteo walks through the big wooden door and I see his face.
It’s not the face of a man who’ll be swayed by compliments about his hair.
I slow from a run to a walk, my heart throbbing painfully hard, my stomach in knots. When I’m standing a few feet away from him, I stop. Only then do I become aware of the warm evening breeze and the scent of night-blooming jasmine, because we stare at each other in silence until my nerves are so highly strung I think I can hear my fingernails growing.
“Hi.”
“Buonasera.” He makes no move to invite me in.
“Um . . . can we go inside and talk?”
He looks away, inhales a big breath, and drags a hand through his hair, and now my heart is dying.
Then he opens his mouth and kills off the rest of me.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Heat floods my cheeks. My chest constricts, as if a giant fist has clutched my lungs. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I was confused—”
“It’s understandable. Your life is chaotic right now.”
“I spoke to Dominic—”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Clearly I do have to explain because you’re not—”
“I can’t do this.” He says it loudly, with force, his brows drawn down and his jaw hard.
It feels like a punch in the gut.
When I only stare at him with my mouth open, he looks at the ground and says softly, “Fuck.”
Breathing is proving extremely difficult. When I speak I sound like Minnie Mouse. “You’re breaking up with me. Is that what this is? You don’t want to see me anymore?”
He props his hands on his hips, shaking his head, still looking at the ground.
“Matteo, talk to me.”
When he raises his head and meets my eyes, breathing becomes impossible. He’s a million miles away, and fading fast.
“You need time. Time to grieve your father. Time to grieve your ex. In six months, you’ll probably feel very differently about everything. Right now, as you said, you’re confused.”
“Was confused,” I whisper, trembling. “Was.”
He closes his eyes briefly, his expression registering pain. “I forced this on you. All of it.”
He sounds so full of regret I want to throw my arms around him and make him feel better. Except he’s ending our nonrelationship, so I also want to break his head.
“Hey! You didn’t force anything on me, pal!” I say heatedly. “Don’t paint yourself as the bad guy! And don’t paint me as some damsel in distress without any choice in the matter! What happened in the dressing room happened because we both wanted it. And all those kisses happened because we both wanted them to.”
“I was blackmailing you,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, you were! Newsflash—I loved every second of it! If I didn’t, you’d have two black eyes and an empty hole between your legs where your dick used to be!”
He glares at me. I glare right back. “Don’t you dare chicken out on me now, Moretti. I will be so mad at you if you chicken out on me now.”
“Calling me poultry isn’t going to help anything,” he snaps, stepping closer.
“I’ll call you a goddamn wet noodle if I want!”
His eyes blaze. He growls, “That mouth,” and takes another step toward me, as if he wishes he wouldn’t but can’t help himself, his shoulders stiff and his lips flattened, his head turned slightly aside in protest.
Pinch your nose if you have to do it, Count Egotistico, but kiss me, dammit. Kiss me now.
We breathe angrily at each other.
We do our wonderful eye-fucking thing.
Then he tilts his head skyward and shouts, “Fuck!” He snaps his head back down and glowers at me. “I’ll call you a taxi. Go wait by the gate.”
The sound of a wooden castle door slamming is exactly as loud as you’d think it would be.
THIRTY-FOUR
By the time I get the phone call, I’m deep into a third glass of wine, a second bag of almond biscotti, and a hopelessness I suspect is soon to become the defining characteristic of my personality.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Now isn’t a good time, Brad.” I stuff another biscotti in my mouth and chomp loudly into the phone. Serves him right for calling in the middle of my breakdown.
“What’s wrong? You sound weird.”
“It’s nothing much. Just an existential crisis that will undoubtedly leave some major scars on my heart, my psyche, and my ability to successfully interact with the rest of the human race.”
“Good luck with that. What’re you eating? It sounds good.”
“You’re as empathetic as a dirt clod,” I say without heat.
“Sorry. Do you wanna talk about it?”
“I’d rather have my eyeteeth pulled. What do you want?”
“I wanted to find out when exactly this modeling thing I’m doing for you is going to happen.”
I sigh heavily and take another swig of my wine. “It’s not happening.”
“What? Why not?”
Brad sounds unduly upset by this news, which makes me suspicious. “Because the reason I wanted to do it in the first place no longer exists. Why do you care?”
There’s a split-second hesitation before he answers, “Because . . . it’s how I’m supposed to be making it up to you. About the ditching-you-at-the-altar thing.”
“I’m aware of why you’re supposed to be making amends to me,” I say drily. “Now tell me the real reason.”
He drops the pretense, going glum in the process. “Fine. I had someone I wanted to invite.”
I snort. “Your mother was going to fly all the way to Italy to watch you in a fashion show? I thought she only wanted pictures.”
“It’s someone else.”
I’m about to lift the glass to my mouth again, but this piece of news stops me. “Really? Who?”
“Giancarlo.”
“Giancarlo? Who the hell is Giancarlo?” When Brad takes too long to answer, I know. “Oh my God. You have a boyfriend? Already?”
“Don’t act so scandalized! I’m not the only one with a new boyfriend, girlfriend!”
After a moment, I say, “Good point. And if you ever call me girlfriend again, I’ll rebreak your nose.” I finish off the glass of wine and pour myself another.
Brad grouses, “You let Jenner call you girlfriend all the time.”
“Dig that hole any deeper and I’ll bury you in it.” My voice drops an octave. “And I don’t have a boyfriend. Matteo and I . . . it’s not happening.”
“Why not? Did you have a fight?”
Brad sounds genuinely concerned. I can’t decide whether that’s hilarious or depressing. “We were never together in the first place. But now we’re really not together.”
“Oh, well, that makes perfect sense. Thanks for the explanation.”
He’s being flippant, the cad. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but . . . it’s complicated.”
Brad gasps. “You farted in bed, didn’t you?”
“That happened one time!” I shout. “And you promised you’d never bring it up again!”
He tuts. “You know you shouldn’t eat beans, Kimber. You can’t digest them. If I were a weaker man, I’d be dead right now. That fart was, like, killer. It took months for my nose hair to regrow.”
“This isn’t happening.” I groan, slumping down farther into my chair. “I’m not having this conversation right now. I’m somewhere in a locked room with padded walls, wearing a nice comfy straitjacket, having a respectable mental breakdown. This is not my life.”
“I’m gonna call you right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
Without further explanation, Brad disconnects the call.
I figure Giancarlo showed up at his hotel room and I won’t be hearing from him again anytime soon, so I’m surprised when my phone rings about ten minutes later. When I pick up, Brad sounds like an efficient secretary.
“I’ve got Jenner and Danielle on the line. I conferenced them in.”
“You did what? What the—”
“Honey,” says Danielle, sounding frantic. “Brad said you’re in trouble—”
“Poppins?” interrupts Jenner. “What’s all this about? Are you okay?”
Brad jumps in, and then they’re all talking over each other. I sit listening in disbelief as Brad explains his version of our previous phone call and Jenner and Danielle pepper him with questions. Finally, after a few minutes, a pause ensues.
Jenner says, “I don’t understand why you’re calling us, though.”
Brad replies, “She’s my best friend. I want her to be happy.”
Another pause, this one longer. Into the silence, I say, “I think there’s a small piece of information the rest of the group is missing, Brad. Up to you if you want to share it or not.”
“You didn’t tell them?”
He’s shocked. I can hear it in his voice. “Not my place. Already told you that.”
“Not even Jenner?” he whispers, his voice wavering.
“Excuse me,” says Jenner impatiently, “but what the bloody hell is going on?”
Brad says, “Um. I, um . . .” He makes a small panicked noise, then begs, “You tell them.”
I don’t bother to argue. Nothing makes any sense anyway. Why should this? “So, do you guys remember where Brad and I were going to go on our honeymoon?”
Danielle says, “The dude ranch?”
Jenner says, “What about it?”
“Two things. The first is that it’s where Brad wanted to go. The second is that it’s a. Dude. Ranch.”
The silence only lasts for less than a few seconds before Jenner says flatly, “No.”
Sounding sheepish, Brad chimes in. “Yeah.”
More silence, then Danielle says, “What’s happening?”
Jenner’s the one who answers her. “If I’m not mistaken, what’s happening is that Brad just came out.”
“Came out? Of where?”
“For God’s sake, what has Ohio done to your brain?” says Jenner, exasperated.
“Excuse me for not being able to read minds,” says an equally exasperated Danielle. “And I’ll have you know, Ohio is a wonderful place!”
“I don’t know, I might be with Jenner on this one,” says Brad, sounding thoughtful. “I went to Cleveland once and almost got mugged outside a church at ten o’clock in the morning.”
Before the conversation goes from merely ridiculous to downright tragic, I take the reins. “Brad is gay, Danielle.”
She bursts into laughter that lasts so long Brad has to come to his own defense. “It’s true. I’m gay.
That’s why I couldn’t go through with the wedding.”
Danielle’s laughter dies as doubt sets in. “Gay? I don’t understand.”
“That was my exact reaction, too.” I get up from the kitchen table to find another bottle of wine.
“I’m surprised I didn’t see it,” says Jenner, “but I’m glad you pulled the plug on the wedding, for both your sakes.” His voice hardens. “We’ll talk about how you should’ve handled that later.”
“I appreciate the support, but I’ve already put him through the wringer.” I lift a bottle from the wine rack on the counter next to the fridge. Nebbiolo. Nice. “Besides, what’s done is done.”
“Right!” says Brad, overly bright. “What we need to concentrate on now is getting her back together with her stepbrother!”
Danielle mutters, “This is the strangest phone call in history.”
“We’re going to need the full backstory if you want us to be any help,” says Jenner, smoothly switching gears. He’s always good in a crisis.
I spend roughly ten minutes recounting everything that’s transpired between Matteo and me since I met him, including my plans to crash his show at Fashion Week using my new dress designs.
“Hold on,” Brad interrupts. “You were gonna make me wear a dress? When were you gonna get around to telling me that?”
“At about the same time you got around to telling me the wedding was off,” I say sweetly. “Because there’s nothing quite like being humiliated in front of hundreds of people while wearing a couture gown handmade for the occasion. You did say you’d do anything to make it up to me.”
That shuts him up.
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? How do you feel about him? Are you in love with this man?”
Jenner’s question stops me cold. “It would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? So soon after meeting him? So soon after my relationship with Brad ending? So soon . . . period?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It would be romantic, not ridiculous,” says Danielle. “I knew as soon as I met Brian that he was the one. Took one look—boom. And your kids would be gorgeous.”
“Whoa! No one’s talking about having kids.”
Brad says, “She’s right. Your kids would be gorgeous.”
Jenner says under his breath, “Ugh. Breeders.”
Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3) Page 26
