Page 41 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
When I swallow, heat scorching my cheeks, Matteo’s gaze turns ruthlessly satisfied. He lifts a hand, indicating all the dresses around us. “You know this shop should be mine.”
I hate him. I hate him with the heat of a thousand suns. I hate him with the force of gravity on—what’s that planet that has all the crushing gravity? Jupiter. Yes. I hate him with the gravity of Jupiter.
“This shop will never be yours,” I say, enunciating each word. Just to get back at him for making my lady bits resemble Jell-O, I add, “Neither will anything else of mine.”
Oh so softly, Matteo answers, “We’ll see.” Then he smiles.
The smug SOB smiles.
As if he can sense I’m about to rip the cash register off the counter and commit murder with it, Dominic drapes his arm over my shoulder and lightly squeezes me closer. Drawing strength from his support, I draw a breath through my nose, then point at the door. “Out.”
I should’ve known Matteo isn’t one to take direction. He strolls over to the mannequin in the pink dress on the dais and touches the skirt. He traces his finger along a seam and muses to no one in particular, “I wonder what Luca would think to hear the way his daughter speaks to me.”
He couldn’t have found a more tender spot if he searched with a bloodhound. I’m stabbed in the chest by a knife of pain, not only because Matteo used my father’s first name so casually, indicating how close they were, but also because I know he’s right.
My father would be appalled at my hostility. He raised me to be considerate of others, even if I didn’t like them.
But that was before I was publicly humiliated and decided to hate all men under the age of sixty. Especially gorgeous, arrogant, rich ones who treat women like everything they’re good for is between their legs.
I turn to Dominic. “Will you please excuse us? Matteo and I need to talk privately.”
Dominic cuts a stony glare at my archnemesis, then gives me a hug. He murmurs into my ear, “I can tell you don’t like him. Smart girl.” He pulls away, eyes me meaningfully, then turns his back on Matteo and leaves.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I turn to Matteo. “I owe you an apology.”
He inspects my face in narrow-eyed silence, his expression assessing.
I know this crow I’m about to eat is gonna taste really shitty, but it’s what my father would want. He always told me that anything could be forgiven in a person’s character except lack of kindness. So I grit my teeth and get it over with.
“For how I talk to you. I’m normally not this . . . ragey.”
After looking at me for a long moment, he says, “You’re hurting. I’m just a convenient target.”
Shit. I was expecting a snappy comeback, not understanding. And especially not insightfulness. If he’s going to be this observant all the time, I won’t be able to be around him. No one likes to feel as if her soul is hanging out for everyone to see, like an untucked shirt.
I arrange my face into an emotionless mask and focus on a spot on the wall over his shoulder so I don’t have to contend with those soul-piercing eyes. “I suppose you’re right. The sketch pad situation didn’t help, but it was more than a fair trade. That plane ticket is probably the best gift I’ve ever been given.”
I have to stop because my voice cracks and water is welling in my eyes. I turn away before Matteo can see and mock me for my lack of dignity. I refuse to be anyone’s kicking bag.
But he surprises me again.
“I envy you,” he says quietly.
When I jerk around in surprise, I find Matteo staring at me with a strange expression. It’s something like longing, only darker.
“What do you mean?”
He turns his attention back to the pink dress. In profile, he’s even more appealing, all ruler-straight lines and sculpted angles, impossibly long lashes swept downward to a smudge on his golden cheeks.
“My father died when I was very young.”
His voice is hollow, edged with regret. There’s something he’s not saying. Though my curiosity is intense, I won’t ask what it is.
“At least you knew him. My mother died when I was born.”
He turns his head. His gaze locks onto mine and doesn’t let go. I feel exposed and vulnerable and have to fight the strong urge to flee. We stare at each other across the small room while my heartbeat goes haywire and the walls seem to grow closer.
“Your father showed me a picture of her once,” says Matteo in a hesitant voice, as if he’s afraid to spook me, or kick-start another bout of anger. “You look so much like her.”
