Page 52 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
Is he kidding? “Leave,” I say firmly, staring him down.
“You haven’t heard my offer yet.”
I’m about to stupidly ask, “What offer?” but snap my mouth closed just in time. I fold my arms over my chest and clamp my lips together.
Matteo drifts closer, swirling his drink. “But I suppose if you’re not interested in getting your sketch pad back, we can forget about it.”
I freeze. My neck goes hot, the flush slowly creeping up into my face. “You already said you’re using my designs in your new collection, so it doesn’t make a difference if I get the sketch pad back or not.”
“Is that what I said?” His gaze is piercing. The faintest of smiles plays at the corners of his lips.
He’s toying with me, like a cat with a mouse.
Except I’m no mouse. I’m a motherfucking lion.
“I’m not playing this game with you,” I say, staring him right in the eye. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit. I want you to get the hell out of my house and stay out. If you don’t, I’ll call the police. I own this property. Not your mother, me. If I don’t want you here, that means you’re trespassing.”
He’s still for a moment, just looking at me, then he exhales. With quiet intensity, he says, “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
My laugh is small and bitter. “I have a lot of experience with lying playboys. You can take your fake compliment and stick it up your ass with your fake kiss.”
His jaw flexes. He says something in Italian, his v
oice husky, his eyes on my mouth.
I wish my heart would stop doing that thing it does whenever he looks at me like that. I’m determined to hate him, and all this fluttery butterfly bullshit going on inside my chest is really starting to annoy me.
“I’ll tell you what.” He goes over to the opposite counter, where a pad of paper and a cup of pens sit beside a telephone. He scribbles something on a piece of paper, folds it in half, then walks back to me and holds it out. “If you decide you’d like to hear my offer, here’s my number. If you don’t”—he shrugs—“I won’t bring it up again.”
I look at the piece of paper in his hand with my nose wrinkled, but say nothing.
He sets the paper on the counter, walks over to the chair where he draped his coat, and picks it up. He slings it over his shoulder.
On his way out the door, he says over his shoulder, “For the record, it wasn’t a compliment. It was a question.”
I shout after him, “When are you going to do us all a favor and jump off a building?”
His dark chuckle is the single most infuriating thing I’ve heard in my life.
SIXTEEN
I come awake in stages. It’s early, probably just after dawn. Gray light filters between a crack in the drapes. The room is quiet and cool, which makes the heat at my back all the more strange.
I turn my head and find a giant black head on the pillow next to mine.
Cornelia’s mouth is open. She’s gently snoring, her long pink tongue lolling out of her mouth onto the pillow. One of her paws is draped over my side.
The damn dog is spooning me!
Trying not to startle her so I don’t accidentally get mauled, I quietly say, “Yo, dog.”
She doesn’t wake up. I nudge her in the belly with my elbow.
Nothing. This animal sleeps like the dead.
A little louder, I say, “Wakey-wakey, Cornelia.”
Her big black eyes flutter open. She blinks slowly, then cracks open her massive jaws and yawns in my face.
