Page 29 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
So he’s beautiful. So what? He’s obviously a letch. If he acts that aggressively with me, I’m sure he acts that way with every woman he encounters. And hell if I’ll ever be so naive again the way I was with Brad.
I don’t know who’s in room 412, but I hope it’s someone with a short temper and a fondness for fistfights.
Imagining Euro Hunk getting punched in the face by a surly hotel guest upset at being disturbed makes a bitter smile curve my lips. Then I feel guilty because without him, I wouldn’t have made it to the hospital in time to hear my father’s last words.
Then, without warning, I burst into tears.
I lie in the tub and let the pain wash over me. There’s so much of it I feel as if I’m suffocating. I have to set the glass on the edge of the tub because my hand is shaking so hard I can’t hold it. I sit up, wrap my arms around my knees, and ugly cry until I’ve wrung myself out and the water has grown cold.
Then I dry off and make myself another drink.
Then the phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Buonasera,” says a husky voice I’d recognize anywhere.
“How did you get this number?” I demand, my face going hot.
A chuckle, even sexier than the voice. “I have friends at the front desk. Apparently you made quite an impression when you checked in. All I had to say was ‘Beautiful American,’ and they connected me to your room straightaway. Speaking of rooms, the lady in four-twelve was very nice, but I prefer my women to have their real teeth and be able to walk without a cane.”
Apparently the privacy laws in this country are as lax as the traffic laws. I say tartly, “Really? I’d have thought as long as a woman was breathing, you’d be good to go.”
“You’d have thought wrong. I’m very particular. My last serious relationship was three years ago.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure. Listen—I’m grateful to you for that ticket. Sincerely, I am. And if you’ll give me your address, I swear I’ll find a way to pay you back. But I’m not interested in sleeping with you.” Okay, that’s a teeny lie, but whatever. “I’m burying my father in a few days—I’m not in the mood for . . . whatever this is.” Why am I explaining this to him? Hang up!
But I can’t hang up, because I’m conflicted. Giving me his ticket was an incredible gesture of generosity. Even if he was hoping for a blowie in the men’s room, it was still generous.
Even though I had to surrender my sketch pad with my entire spring collection, it was still generous.
Also, he’s incredibly hot, and my uterus is shrieking at me that she’ll never forgive me if I hang up on him first.
So I don’t hang up. I wait, breathing shallowly, listening to static crackle over the line. After a long pause, Euro Hunk speaks again. “I understand. And I’m sorry about your father. I know how hard it is to lose someone you love.”
With a soft click the line goes dead.
I stand frowning at the receiver in my hand, wondering why that felt weird. Like, wrong weird.
Like a mistake.
“Because you’re an idiot,” I say aloud to the empty room. Then I get ready for bed and put the whole thing out of my mind.
I toss and turn all night, dreaming of boiling cauldrons and cackling witches and handsome princes riding white steeds. When I wake up, I’m disoriented. It takes a good thirty seconds of staring blankly around the hotel room until I realize where I am. Then I get so depressed I lie there staring at the ceiling, mentally sifting through the shambles of my life.
Where am I going to live? What am I going to do for money? How did I lose my fiancé, my father, and my business within the space of a few days?
I enjoy a good solid ten minutes of imagining throwing the WS and her ridiculous dogs out on their asses and living at Il Sogno myself, but I can’t keep up the anger for long and end up crying again.
My pity party is interrupted by the arrival of a text.
We really need to talk. Please call me.
I text Brad back that I’ll break his jaw next time if he tries to contact me again, then block his number.
I sit there seething until I can’t stand it anymore, then drag myself out of bed and take a shower. I’m supposed to be back at the house at noon to meet with the potential buyer of DiSanto Couture who the marchesa set a meeting with, so though I’d love nothing more than to lie in bed and wallow, I’m forced into adulting. On the cab ride to Il Sogno, I check my bank account, choking out a sick laugh when I see the balance.
By the time I arrive at the house, my mood is black. The WS better watch out because this morning, I’m capable of murder.
