Page 74 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
He lifts his hands in a surrendering gesture and shakes his head, but his stomach clenches with silent laughter. Of course that makes every muscle stand out in 3-D, so now I’m looking at a tanned six-pack the likes of which I’ve never seen. It should be illegal for the effect it’s having on my body.
The damn thing is an uncontrolled substance. His abdomen is a dangerous, dangerous drug.
I’d like to push my face into it and snort it up.
“I’ll walk home,” I pronounce, face flaming, and head toward the door.
“It would take hours. And you don’t know the way.”
“I’ll call a taxi,” I say over my shoulder. I stop at the door and look down at my bare feet.
“Your shoes are next to the bed.”
I lift my chin and go on the hunt for my shoes, which are indeed next to the bed. I slip them on, avoiding Matteo’s laughing gaze, and head to the door again.
He stops me with, “How are you going to get a taxi without a phone or money?”
When I turn and look at him, he smiles. “You didn’t bring your purse with you.”
“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”
“Just wait there a minute. I’ll drive you.”
He buttons his shirt. By that I mean he makes love to the shirt with his fingers, caressing each button with slow, sensual strokes as he slips them through the buttonholes at the speed at which honey would drip down a wall. It’s a pornographic performance, one that could earn him an Oscar for hotness.
The entire time, he stares at me with a look. That look, the one that makes me weak in the knees.
“Those eyes,” he murmurs, smiling.
I turn and leave before my uterus can revive itself and cause any more trouble.
Neither of us speaks on the ride back to Il Sogno. As soon as he slows to a stop, I leap from the car. I don’t look back. I head inside and go straight up to my bedroom, where I flop facedown onto the bed and ponder the situation.
There’s no denying it.
I want to jump Matteo’s bones.
I’m disappointed in myself because he is—or was—a relative, so ew. He’s another good-looking, entitled egomaniac like Brad, and I’ve sworn off those, and he’s also a heartless jerk who wants to pass off my designs as his own. Unfortunately, none of
that can be helped. The only thing I can control is how I deal with this whole debacle.
The main problem is proximity. If I’m going to be living in this house with his mother until she kicks the bucket, I’ll be seeing a lot of him.
Maybe the idea of moving to Florence was a tad premature.
I suppose I could get my father’s business back into the black and look for a buyer then. That would at least guarantee I’d get a fair price for it, instead of having to sell at a bargain-basement price because of all the current debt. That way I’d have some money to pay for the flight home, the rent I owe on my ash pile of a dress shop, and first and last month’s rent on a new apartment.
That seems like a solid plan, until I remember what’s waiting for me in San Francisco.
Humiliation galore.
How long would it be before I’d be comfortable showing my face in public? Do I have the strength to endure all the whispers and giggles I’d hear while standing in line at Starbucks waiting for my morning latte?
But maybe I’m being overly dramatic. I’m no celebrity, after all. Yes, the paparazzi were after me because I was the hot story of the moment, but surely some other scandal will soon come along and everyone will forget who I am. In fact, I could already be yesterday’s news.
Excited at the thought, I jump up and snatch my handbag from the dresser. I dig out my phone and send Jenner a text.
Nobody in San Fran will still be talking about me in like a month, right?
