Page 32 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
She’s smug, the witch, because of course I’ve heard of it. Hell, everyone in fashion has heard of Moretti! They’re the hottest thing in the industry at the moment. But I won’t give either one of them the satisfaction.
“Can’t say that I have.”
Matteo crosses his arms over his broad chest and gazes at me from under hooded lids. I look back and forth between him and his mother, who’s wearing the exact same hard, emotionless expression.
Everything inside me says, Fuck this.
The sale isn’t going to happen.
“Not that you’d care to know,” I say in a voice that sounds like I’ve swallowed a handful of gravel, “but my father’s last words to me were about you.”
A muscle in the corner of her eyelid twitches, but that’s all the reaction I get from the marchesa. I turn my gaze to Matteo.
“And he gave me a piece of advice I didn’t realize would come in handy so soon. He told me not to give up when things get difficult. His exact words were ‘Dig in your heels.’ So this is me digging in my heels.”
I take a breath, amazed at what’s about to come out of my mouth. But what the hell. I’ve got literally nothing left to lose.
“I’m not selling the business. I’m going to run it myself.”
The marchesa sputters, “What?” but my attention is focused on Matteo.
Beautiful, ruthless Matteo, who bartered a plane ticket he could probably pay for a million times over for a sketch pad chock-full of inspiration for new designs for his clothing line.
I say acidly, “Oh, wait. I think I have heard of you—didn’t I read somewhere that the House of Moretti recently lost its head designer?”
He’s got an eye twitch like his mother’s. He says stiffly, “I am the head designer.”
My gaze rakes over his spotless suit, the platinum cuff links, the shoes made from the skin of veal calves massaged by virgins and hand stitched by a cloister of nuns singing hymns in a Tibetan mountaintop abbey. “Not really hands on, though, I’d guess. I can’t picture you with rolled-up sleeves, pinning cloth on mannequins, working deep into the night. Probably too busy running around with supermodels.”
The marchesa sniffs. “My son doesn’t date models.”
I lift my brows and look at her. “Do you pick out his underwear for him, too?”
Matteo barks, “Stop with the disrespect!”
My temper snaps. “Don’t you dare talk to me about disrespect! Your precious mother didn’t have enough respect for my father to visit him in the hospital while he was dying, did you know that?”
My shout dies in echoes that linger in the air like poison gas. No one speaks for what feels like an eternity. Then the marchesa says quietly, “Please excuse me,” and walks out of the room, head high.
Matteo watches her go, a muscle flexing in his jaw, but doesn’t try to stop her. When he turns his gaze back to me, I feel a primal urge to run away. I never knew blue eyes could burn with so much fire. It’s like looking into an incinerator.
“You and your mouth,” he says, stalking closer. He looms over me, glaring down at me like he’s fighting himself not to curl his hands around my neck. He leans into my face. “And your attitude, and your selfishness—”
I gasp, infuriated. “My selfishness?”
“And your bad manners!” he thunders. “Did it ever occur to you that not everyone wants the whole world to know when they’re in pain?”
I was in a fight once, in grade school. I stuck up for a kid who was being bullied by a group of girls, and one of those girls had a strong right arm. Matteo’s words feel exactly like that punch I took to the gut all those years ago.
I stand staring at him breathlessly, my heart beating fast, tears welling in my eyes. I swallow, then say bitterly, “I’m sorry my grief is so offensive to you. I have this thing called a heart. I’m not the kind of person who’s able to pretend everything is fine when it’s bleeding.”
I start to brush past him, but he stops me with his hand gripped lightly around my shoulder. “Wait.”
“Get your hands off me.” I try to twist away, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls me even closer.
“Kimber, stop. Stop. Please.”
I stand stiffly, vibrating rage, staring at the third button on his white dress shirt while breathing hard and trying not to cry. He exhales a slow breath and loosens his grip on my shoulder but doesn’t release me.
