Page 69 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“Ecco.”
“Thank you. Um, grazie.”
She folds her hands over her apron, tilts her head, and examines me. Then she launches into a long and impassioned speech—about what I have no idea, because it’s all in Italian.
At the end of it she sighs. Then, in English, she says, “But he’s worth it.”
She pats me on the shoulder, then turns around and leaves.
I guzzle the glass of wine and pour myself another.
I remember nothing else until I wake up with a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like a homeless person took a dump in it.
Lifting my head sends spikes of pain shooting through the back of my skull. I crack open an eye and look around the room. Where am I? And how did I get
here?
Cavernous yet cozy, the room is fit for a king. The ceiling is dark wood, crossed by thick beams. A circular iron chandelier hangs in the middle. The stone walls are warmed by colorful tapestries and framed landscapes in oils. Scattered over the floor are half a dozen thick tasseled area rugs. The furniture is also dark wood, heavy and masculine, and the fireplace is so big you could burn an SUV in it.
The massive four-poster bed I’m lying in is carved with elaborate scenes from a fox hunt. I find that vaguely disturbing.
Slightly more disturbing is the sight of Matteo asleep in a chair beside the bed.
He’s sitting up, fully dressed, including his shoes. He’s loosened his tie, but that’s the only evidence he tried to get comfortable. His head is tilted back, exposing the strong line of his throat, and his hair is a little mussed, as if he were running his hands through it.
On the bedside table sits a glass of water and two aspirin.
As if he sensed me looking at him, his eyes flutter open. He turns his head and looks at me. His face is sleepy and soft, and his gaze is warm and hazy.
So this is what you look like when you wake up.
When he smiles, my heart hurts even more than my head.
His voice thick with sleep, he asks, “How do you feel?”
“Like shit. What happened?”
He stands, stretches his neck, then picks up the aspirin and holds them out to me. “You drank an entire bottle of wine in under thirty minutes, then passed out. Take these.”
I allow him to tip the aspirin into my open palm. Then he hands me the glass of water. “Drink.”
I pop the aspirin into my mouth and swallow some of the water, then hold the glass out for him to take. He shakes his head.
“Bossy,” I grumble, and gulp a few more swallows of water.
When I hold out the glass this time, he takes it from my hand. He finishes what’s left in it, sets it on the bedside table, and removes his suit jacket. He drapes it over the chair he was sitting in, unfastens his cuff links, and rolls up his sleeves.
Why do I find that so damn sexy?
Angry with both of us, I roll over onto my other side and burrow under the covers.
In a moment the mattress dips. Then I get his strong hands on my shoulders, kneading my aching muscles. It feels so good I groan.
He works his fingers between my shoulder blades, coaxing the knots until they relax. Then he squeezes my neck and rubs the base of my skull with his thumbs. I groan again, more faintly.
“Feel good?”
“I hate you,” I mutter into the pillow.
