Page 26 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“Bene,” says the attorney, nodding. Then he looks at me. “That means good.”
“I know what it means.”
He purses his lips as if he doesn’t believe me.
I’m abruptly angry, because massive mood swings are my new normal. “Are we done here? Because I’d like to check into the hotel before dinner.”
Before he can answer, my cell phone rings. I glance at the number, frowning when I see it’s my landlord. “Excuse me for a sec.” I rise, hitting the “Answer” button as I walk from the library into the hallway.
“Hey, Mr. Drummond.”
“Hello, Kimber.”
The man I rent my tiny but horrifically expensive shop from in the Castro district sounds unusually somber, which sets off alarm bells in my head. What time is it in San Francisco, anyway? 6:00 a.m.? I check my watch, and sure enough, it’s just after dawn there.
“Is everything okay? My rent check cleared, right?”
“Yes, your check cleared. That’s not why I’m calling.”
When he draws a breath, my heart leaps into my throat. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I can tell by his heavy exhalation whatever he’s about to tell me won’t be good, but nothing can prepare me for the words that come out of his mouth.
“There’s been a fire.”
“A fire?” Panic like a chaos of wingbeats erupts inside my chest.
“The cause hasn’t been determined yet, but it’s bad. The whole block went up. I’m standing across the street as we speak. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your shop and everything in it is gone. There’s nothing left but ashes.”
I stand rooted to the spot, sick with disbelief, a high-pitched scream ricocheting inside my skull. My files, my computer, all the dresses I spent countless hours crafting so carefully are gone? My entire business has disappeared overnight?
This can’t be happening.
“Under the terms of your lease, you’re responsible for your rent until you’ve been cleared of any liability. I have no idea how long it’ll take the authorities to determine what happened, so”—he laughs uncomfortably—“I’m still gonna need another check on the first.”
And the hits just keep on coming.
EIGHT
MATTEO
I don’t believe in fate, but when I see her walk into the hotel bar, I can’t help but think something more than coincidence is at play.
She looks angry. Angry, fierce, and beautiful, like a vengeful goddess. All that black hair I’d like to wrap around my wrist spills over her shoulders in tangles. Her cheeks are red. Her eyes are wild. She exudes a dangerous, frantic energy, as if she recently escaped from prison.
“Matteo? Are you listening?”
“Excuse me for a moment, Antonio.”
Without another word, I rise from the table—the one I always sit at, the best one, in the back of the room—and stroll toward the bar.
She’s taken a seat at the end. Her back is to me. She drags her hands through her hair, props her elbows on the bar, then drops her head into her hands.
I stop beside her, admiring the way the lights glint blue in her hair. “You’re upset.”
She jerks her head up. When she sees me, her eyes widen. She stares at me with her lips parted and a look of disbelief on her face.
It quickly turns to fury.
