Page 36 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“I’m waiting with bated breath.”
I can practically hear his eyes rolling. “Remember the guy I told you about, the gorgeous Italian who I met in New York and gave the fake phone number to?”
“Yes. Your description of his suit gave me an erection. What about him?”
“He’s here. In Florence.”
Jenner gasps. “You saw him again?”
“Oh, honey, that’s not even the best part.”
I have to smile when Jenner shrieks. “Revenge sex?”
“Kinkier.”
His voice comes low and thrilled. “Oh my God—are we talking Christian Grey kinky?”
“Waay kinkier than that.”
“Tell me before I die! Is he a sadist? A dominant? A genius with knotting ropes?”
“He’s my stepbrother.”
In the ensuing pause, I hear Gordon Ramsay shouting at someone in the background. Jenner loves watching cooking shows. “Did you say . . . stepbrother?”
“I did. Well, technically speaking, he’s my ex-stepbrother now.”
“Hold on. Let me make sure I’m following. What you’re telling me is that you met a gorgeous man at the airport in New York whom you had an instant sexual attraction to, gave a fake phone number to, whom you then met again in Florence . . . and turned out to be related to?”
“I’m saving the best part for last.”
“There’s more?” Jenner shouts.
“I didn’t tell you that I was bumped off my flight to Florence . . . but got on the flight because he gave me his plane ticket. His first-class ticket.”
“Rubbish!”
“It’s true!”
“Why would he give you his ticket?”
“Because he overheard me arguing with the gate agent. I told her I had to be on the flight because my father was dying. He stepped in to save the day.”
“That’s just about the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” Jenner sounds as if he’s about to faint.
My voice is dry. “Don’t pass out yet, because in trade for this ticket, he made me give him . . .”
Jenner sucks in a hard breath. “What? What did he make you give him?”
I know he’s picturing all kinds of hot, sweaty stranger sex in a hallway closet, so I wait a beat, just to torture him. Then I say flatly, “He made me give him my sketch pad.”
Jenner’s silence throbs with confusion. “I’ve lost the plot.”
“You know, my sketch pad. The one I always use to design my dresses—”
“Yes, yes, of course I know. You’re always carrying the wretched thing around like a security blanket. Why would he want that dreadful tattered book?”
“Are you still sitting down?”
