Page 50 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
Fine. So he knows. Big whoop.
“And maybe you’re right. For that I apologize. What I’m trying so poorly to say is that I’m worried about you, and I’m here for you for anything that doesn’t involve ending my career.” His voice grows quieter. “Do you want me to fly out for the funeral?”
At the mention of the F word, the energy drains from my body. I slump into the nearest chair and throw an arm over my eyes. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“I can be on a plane in three hours. Just say the word.”
In the background, Jenner’s playdate complains about the possibility of him leaving and is crossly shushed.
“No,” I say more firmly. “I’m okay. Thanks for the offer, though. I appreciate it.”
The last thing I want is to be a burden on him. He’s happy and having fun, and I’m ruining everything with all my disasters. “You know something? You’re right. I’m off-kilter. I’m not thinking straight. It’s been a really bizarre, emotional week, and all the wires in my brain are crossed.” I laugh. It sounds about as cheerful as if I’d just slit my wrists. “I’m gonna go. Sorry for calling you so early. Or late. Whatever it is there.”
“Hey. You. Greta Garbo.”
“I’m not Greta Garbo,” I mutter. “I’m Katharine Hepburn.”
“Right. The feisty, independent one, not the moody ‘I want to be alone’ one.”
“Exactly.”
“I think you’re a bit of both, but what I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted is that I love you.”
“I know,” I whisper, trying not to sound too teary and broken. “I love you, too.”
“Oh, Poppins. It gets better. I promise.”
“You sound like one of those PSAs for teen suicide.”
“Call me anytime you need a pep talk, yes? And I’m serious about the funeral. Say the word and I’m there.”
We say our goodbyes and hang up.
Then I go back to my sketches. If Jenner won’t help me steal Matteo’s thunder, I’ll just have to find someone else who will.
At eight o’clock that night, I stumble bleary-eyed and starving out of the taxi and into the house. The door’s open, so I let myself in.
Right in the middle of family dinner time.
At the formal dining table sit the marchesa, Cornelia, and Beans. They all look up when I walk in.
“Buonasera,” says the marchesa, setting her fork down.
She’s resplendent in a black silk suit. It sets off her pale hair and skin and makes her cyborg eyes glow like the Terminator’s. She looks as if she’s about to execute someone. To her left, Beans sits in her booster seat, trembling with malice. To her right, Cornelia is creeping down under the table with big scaredy-cat eyes, trying to be invisible.
At the other end of the table sits Matteo, lounging in his chair like the king of the universe.
He smiles, looks me up and down with a starkly sexual gaze, and winks.
It’s a challenge. He’s throwing down. He wants to see how I’ll handle him hanging out here. I’d bet a million bucks he’s hoping I’ll throw a fit.
Without a shred of emotion in my voice or on my face, I say to the marchesa, “I realized I didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“I’m moving in.”
She delicately pats her lips with her napkin, leaving her lipstick undisturbed, then smooths the napkin over her lap. “I assumed that when Dominic brought your luggage back yesterday.”
