Page 71 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“Oh I know. I saw what you did to blondie’s face.” His voice darkens. “It’s an improvement.”
We’re quiet for a while. When he doesn’t do anything alarming, I slowly begin to relax. It’s deeply strange to be cuddling with Matteo, for a variety of reasons, not least of which is I’m determined he’s my enemy. I never would’ve given him my sketch pad at the airport if I’d known who he was. And now he’s blackmailing me to get it back, for the love of all that’s holy.
My uterus decides this is a good time to interject an opposing viewpoint: But look how supportive he was at the funeral! And how protective he was when Brad showed up!
My ovaries chime in: And he watched you while you were sleeping so you wouldn’t die!
“That was a very sad-sounding sigh. Care to share?”
I pick at the blanket, which feels like a cross between silk, velvet, and a newborn’s bottom. I’ve never felt anything as soft. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a breath for courage. “So this offer of yours about getting my sketch pad back.”
Matteo’s hand falls still on my shoulder. I feel a new tension in him, then I feel him suppress it and force himself to relax. He waits patiently, seemingly calm, but his body betrays him. Between my shoulder blades, his heartbeat has started to pound like mad.
I think he really, really wants me to take him up on his offer. A flush of heat creeps into my cheeks.
When I’m quiet too long, he prompts, “What about it?”
There’s a hint of impatience in his tone, and now the flush in my cheeks spreads to other parts of my body, far away from my face.
I clear my throat. “How do I know you won’t use the designs even if I do agree to your . . . terms?”
Twenty-four kisses. Hot-as-fuck, panty-melting, toe-curling kisses. I try not to shiver at the thought.
“I’ll give you a page back every time.”
I frown at the thought of him handing me pages ripped and wrinkled, torn from the pad. “You could’ve already made copies of everything.”
“I haven’t. And I won’t. And I’ll destroy any dress we’ve made when I give you its sketch back.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Short of saying the P word, how can I convince you?”
I try to think of something that would affect him as much as his using my designs in his collection would affect me. What would really get his goat? What would make him feel exactly as betrayed, angry, hurt, and powerless?
In a moment of brilliance, it comes to me. “I’ll tell your mother everything.”
Silence.
“She might not believe me, but—”
“She’ll believe you.”
He says it as if it’s a foregone conclusion she’d take my word over his, even though she met me mere days ago and we haven’t exactly become the best of friends. My intuition tells me I’ve stepped into all kinds of sticky, smelly ancient family poop, so deep I’d need an earthmover to get to the bottom of it.
Of course that makes me insanely intrigued and want to dive right in.
Aiming for nonchalance, I say, “You’ve blackmailed other designers before me, hmm?”
“No. She just doesn’t expect me to be anything but disappointing.”
That’s so unexpected I have no response. Disappointing? Her handsome, respectful, successful son is a disappointment to her?
I become convinced there’s a terrible, dark secret in his background that his mother had to cover up. Like an accidental death or a gnarly history of drug abuse. Some horrible scandal had to be hidden so they could continue to hold their heads high in the aristocratic circles they run in.
Maybe that’s why he’s always so quick to defend her honor! She holds the keys to his skeleton closet!
Or maybe it’s more mundane than that. Maybe he’s more like Brad than I realized. Not the gay thing—there’s no way Matteo is batting for the other team. No, the gambling, running-up-debts, besmirching-the-family-name-with-douchebaggery thing.
