Page 84 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
I just all around hate him.
“Miss Kimber, your face is a tomato,” says Clara, looking at me with concern. “The heat, it gets to you. Maybe you should sit.”
They’re all gazing at me in grandmotherly concern, and now I’m embarrassed. “I’m fine, don’t worry. Can we finish the underpinning in the next few hours?”
“Certo,” says Clara, waving a hand like it’s a silly question. “This is no big one.”
I think she means no biggie, but I’m not about to correct her.
For the next hour and a half, I manage not to think of Matteo once. When I glance up from the piece of faille I’m embroidering with sequins and seed pearls, I’m surprised to see the time. Lying to myself that I’d do it even if I didn’t have an appointment to kiss Matteo, I head to the bathroom and try to freshen up.
It’s like trying to freshen a wilted piece of lettuce. I’m limp and unappealing, my hair frizzing, the rest of me misted with sweat. I run the water in the tap for what seems like forever until it finally comes out cold. I splash my face, hoping some of the color will subside in my cheeks by the time he arrives.
Thank God it’s hot. I don’t want Count Egotistico thinking my body temperature has anything to do with him.
Even though it has everything to do with him.
I could be lying nude on an ice floe in the middle of the Arctic Ocean right now and I’d still be on fire. All from the thought of his mouth.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
I make it my mantra as I dry my face and smooth my hair. By the time I go into the front of the shop, cooler because all the windows are open and there’s a cross breeze, I think I’ve got myself sorted.
Until he pulls up across the street in his sleek black sports car.
The moment he opens the door and steps out, his eyes find me. It’s like they’re tracking beams, homing in on my exact location behind the counter. He’s spectacular in a dove-gray suit, but I barely notice that because his eyes have taken me hostage.
All my cells scream He’s here! and start to party.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
He closes the door of the car without looking away from me. Staring into my eyes, he slowly unbuttons his jacket. I have to grip the edge of the counter for support because my knees are doing their wobbly Jell-O routine again.
By the time he crosses the street and opens the shop door, my brain is scrambled eggs. The rest of me is one pulsing, incandescent beacon of lust.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
He steps into the shop, and the air does that thing it does when he enters a room. It leaves in a whoosh, taking my breath with it.
“Kimber.”
He says my name in a husky, possessive tone, as if he’s already inside me.
Dear God, what is my uterus doing? I think it might be trying to escape from my body and fling itself across the room onto his face.
“Hey,” I say with utter nonchalance. “What’s up?”
He smiles. It’s a secret smile, and completely unnerving. In his hand he holds a briefcase, which is where I suppose one of my purloined sketches resides.
“Did you bring it?”
“Of course.”
We eye fuck each other for a while, until I want to run screaming from the room. “Let’s see it.”
He strolls across the space toward the counter as if he’s got all the time in the world, that little unnerving smile hovering around his lips. He sets the briefcase on the counter, flicks open the locks, removes a folded sheet of paper, and hands it to me.
As soon as I have it between my fingers, I start to get emotional. I feel as if I’ve been reunited with my kidnapped child. Unfolding the paper, I press the sketch to my chest and blow out a shaky breath. “The red dress.”
