Page 34 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“You’re splitting hairs. The intent was clear.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You think I do that all the time, is that it?”
“I honestly don’t care one way or the other.”
“You’ll have to learn to lie better than that if you’re going to succeed in fashion here, bella.”
He smirks, and I want to knock him out. The urge is surprisingly strong. I’m not normally a violent person, but the man brings out the insane-o little cavewoman in me. “I don’t need business advice from you.”
“This isn’t America.” He says America like you’d say Ew, poop. “This is Italy. The fashion capital of the planet—”
“Tell that to the French.”
He waves me off like I’m being ridiculous. “And a girl from San Francisco—not even New York—who owns a sweet little dress shop is in no way prepared to compete here.”
“Wow. I’m not sure which was worse: the sexism in that statement, or the sheer snobbism. I’m insulted on behalf of my gender and my country. And how do you know so much about me, anyway?”
His expression turns grave. “Your father spoke of you often.”
My throat tightens. “You . . . spent time with him?”
“Yes. There were dinners, visits here, or to my home. We became close.”
Hearing that is so painful I have to close my eyes and concentrate on simply breathing for a moment. All the time I was clueless about my father’s new wife and stepson, they were enjoying time together. They ate meals together. Like a family. They “became close.” While I was wasting time planning a wedding that would never happen with a man who didn’t love me.
Why didn’t you tell me, Papa? Why?
I’m gripped by a jealousy so strong it leaves me shaking. For the past two months, this arrogant jerk was spending quality time with my father. Precious time that I’d never be able to spend with him again.
His tone more gentle, Matteo says, “I’ll give you a good price for the company. Better than anyone else would offer.”
“So you can turn around and give all the money to your mother? No thanks.”
“My mother doesn’t need money,” he says flatly, all the gentleness gone.
I glance up at him and can tell I’ve offended him again. Good. “That’s not what I heard.”
He grinds out, “Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t make any difference. You’re not getting the business either way. Go back to your castle and holler at your servants. I’m done with this conversation.”
We engage in another round of hate staring.
I break first, because it’s taking too much energy and this entire exchange has exhausted me. I push off the couch and exhale loudly, dying for a drink. And maybe a rock to hurl in his general direction.
“So your plan is to give up your entire life in America just to spite me? And my mother, whom you obviously dislike? You’re going to move here, to a country whose language you don’t even speak—”
I whirl on him. “How do you know I don’t speak Italian?”
“Your father told me. He told me many things about you. He spoke of your kindness. And your strength. And your intelligence. He made you sound like Wonder Woman.” A hard look comes into his eyes. “The only thing to wonder is how well he knew you.”
He moves closer, a panther stalking his prey. I move back, one step for each of his, until I bump into a table and can’t retreat any farther. Matteo does away with any consideration for personal space and gets right up in my face so our bodies are almost touching.
“He never mentioned your temper. Or the way you make snap judgments before you get to know people.” His gaze drops to my lips, and his voice drops with it. “Or that mouth.”
My nipples tighten, the traitors. A wave of heat dampens my skin. I stare at him, willing myself not to pant, then push him slowly away using the tip of one finger.
His chest is so hard he could be wearing a Kevlar vest.
