Page 122 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“What’s wrong? You sound weird.”
“It’s nothing much. Just an existential crisis that will undoubtedly leave some major scars on my heart, my psyche, and my ability to successfully interact with the rest of the human race.”
“Good luck with that. What’re you eating? It sounds good.”
“You’re as empathetic as a dirt clod,” I say without heat.
“Sorry. Do you wanna talk about it?”
“I’d rather have my eyeteeth pulled. What do you want?”
“I wanted to find out when exactly this modeling thing I’m doing for you is going to happen.”
I sigh heavily and take another swig of my wine. “It’s not happening.”
“What? Why not?”
Brad sounds unduly upset by this news, which makes me suspicious. “Because the reason I wanted to do it in the first place no longer exists. Why do you care?”
There’s a split-second hesitation before he answers, “Because . . . it’s how I’m supposed to be making it up to you. About the ditching-you-at-the-altar thing.”
“I’m aware of why you’re supposed to be making amends to me,” I say drily. “Now tell me the real reason.”
He drops the pretense, going glum in the process. “Fine. I had someone I wanted to invite.”
I snort. “Your mother was going to fly all the way to Italy to watch you in a fashion show? I thought she only wanted pictures.”
“It’s someone else.”
I’m about to lift the glass to my mouth again, but this piece of news stops me. “Really? Who?”
“Giancarlo.”
“Giancarlo? Who the hell is Giancarlo?” When Brad takes too long to answer, I know. “Oh my God. You have a boyfriend? Already?”
“Don’t act so scandalized! I’m not the only one with a new boyfriend, girlfriend!”
After a moment, I say, “Good point. And if you ever call me girlfriend again, I’ll rebreak your nose.” I finish off the glass of wine and pour myself another.
Brad grouses, “You let Jenner call you girlfriend all the time.”
“Dig that hole any deeper and I’ll bury you in it.” My voice drops an octave. “And I don’t have a boyfriend. Matteo and I . . . it’s not happening.”
“Why not? Did you have a fight?”
Brad sounds genuinely concerned. I can’t decide whether that’s hilarious or depressing. “We were never together in the first place. But now we’re really not together.”
“Oh, well, that makes perfect sense. Thanks for the explanation.”
He’s being flippant, the cad. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but . . . it’s complicated.”
Brad gasps. “You farted in bed, didn’t you?”
“That happened one time!” I shout. “And you promised you’d never bring it up again!”
He tuts. “You know you shouldn’t eat beans, Kimber. You can’t digest them. If I were a weaker man, I’d be dead right now. That fart was, like, killer. It took months for my nose hair to regrow.”
“This isn’t happening.” I groan, slumping down farther into my chair. “I’m not having this conversation right now. I’m somewhere in a locked room with padded walls, wearing a nice comfy straitjacket, having a respectable mental breakdown. This is not my life.”
