Page 44 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“You see? We don’t have to be enemies. Let me buy the business, and we can be the best of friends.”
I freeze. All the blood that was pumping through my veins so hotly falls to a complete standstill. I stare at him, at his beautiful face so close to mine, and wonder how strict the laws on murder are in this country.
“Wait. Wait—did you just kiss me to try to get me to sell you my father’s business?”
He glowers at me from under dark brows but doesn’t respond.
I push him away, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Answer the question.”
He inhales a slow breath, drags a hand through his hair, and straightens his jacket. Then he tosses his head back and stares at me down his nose.
“Oh my God. You . . . you . . . mercenary!”
A muscle flexes in his jaw. His eyes could make a cold pile of kindling explode into flame. “The company will be better off in my hands. If you want to honor your father’s memory, let someone run it who can make it the success it deserves to be.”
This is the second time he’s made me feel like I’ve taken a punch to the gut. I’m determined it will be the last.
I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and dredge up what little dignity I have left. Then I stare him right in the eye and let him have i
t.
“Fuck you, Matteo Moretti. Fuck you and that high horse you rode in on, and fuck your ego, and fuck your fake kiss.”
“Which you loved, by the way.”
“And fuck that stupid smirk on your face,” I say through gritted teeth, willing myself not to lose control and start screaming. “Now get out of my shop. And don’t ever come back, or I’ll make you wish you were never born.”
He stares at me in blistering silence, his gaze raking over my face. He looks as if he wants to say something else, but instead he shakes his head, turns around, and stalks out. He slams the door behind him.
I lean on the counter, breathing hard, still dizzy from his kiss. How many more times will I let myself be humiliated before I learn my lesson?
Men can’t be trusted.
Neither can my uterus.
From now on, I’ll only allow logic to run the show.
Still shaking, I lock the door to the shop and get to work.
Nine hours later, I’ve conducted an audit of the books, catalogued and repriced the inventory, reorganized most of the work space in the back of the shop, and managed not to think about Matteo more than once every four or five minutes.
My mind keeps wandering back to that kiss. The adrenaline levels in my bloodstream still haven’t returned to normal.
I make a list of things to buy—first being a computer—turn the lights off, and lock up. Then I walk down the street to the square, where I find a taxi to take me back to Il Sogno.
The house is dark when I arrive. I don’t have a key, so I’m forced to knock on the front door, hoping Lorenzo will still be awake so I don’t have to sneak through a window. I’m relieved when I hear a quick step approaching.
The door opens. “Sorry I’m so late, Loren—” I stop short because the man who opened the door isn’t Lorenzo.
“Don’t look so surprised to see me. My mother lives here, remember?”
Smirking, Matteo leans against the doorframe. He’s dressed casually, in dark slacks and a white dress shirt rolled up his strong, tanned forearms. He looks like a billionaire supermodel posing for a spread in Billionaire Supermodel magazine.
Incandescent with anger, I brush past him into the house. My house, I remind myself, fuming.
I head straight to the kitchen because I’m starving. Lorenzo’s there, sitting at the big wooden table, swirling a snifter of amber liquid in his hand. Another snifter sits on the table across from him. He looks up and smiles. “Ah. Signorina. We were just talking about you.”
Behind me, Matteo strolls into the kitchen. I feel him standing there in the doorway, making all the atoms in the room vibrate at a dangerous frequency.
