“Don’t be silly. There’s no kidnapper.”
“So it’s drugs, then. You’re on drugs.”
“You know I don’t do drugs.”
More silence. “You’re not actually serious, Poppins.”
He sounds affronted, as if moving to Florence is a ridiculous idea. Okay, it might be a tiny bit ridiculous, but I haven’t told him why yet.
“Are you ready to hear something really freaky?”
“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?”
“Not only am I sitting down, I’m ruining my manicure gnawing on my cuticles! Spill, bitch, spill!”
“He’s a fashion designer.”
There’s a strangled sound on the other end of the line, like maybe Jenner’s choking on his tongue.
“And not just any fashion designer. You’ll recognize his name. You own a few of his suits.”
“Oh.” He pants like an overexcited puppy. “I’m having a stroke. I’m having a heart attack. I’ve burst a vessel in my brain. Who is it, Poppins? Who?”
I’m starting to enjoy this and grimly smile. “Matteo Moretti.”
A brief silence, then from Jenner’s throat bursts a long, wavering shriek that could rouse the dead from their graves. “Shut. Up!”
“I’m telling you.”
“You. Liar!”
“Swear to God.”
“No!”
“Yes, honey. One thousand percent yes.” I hear a loud thud and worry I’ve killed my best friend. “Jenner! Are you there?”
“Do you have any idea,” he begins faintly, “any idea how many times I’ve masturbated to the thought of Matteo Moretti?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Dude. TMI.”
“My God, Poppins, he’s the most beautiful man who ever lived. Did you see the spread of him in Italian GQ when he first launched his company?”
“No. I’d never seen a picture of him before. I had no idea what he looked like, which is why I didn’t recognize him at the airport!”
Jenner’s sigh is heavy and full of longing. “Matteo. Oh, my dear sweet Matteo. J’taime. J’adore. Tu es tout pour moi—”
“Please tell me you’re not touching yourself right now.”
He grumbles, “Puritan.”
“Can we get this train back on track? My point of this story is that I’m moving to Florence!”
I hear another sigh, but this one is different. Jenner has an entire vocabulary of sighs, each one nuanced, each one articulate. This one is what I imagine a mother disappointed in her daughter’s choice of husband would sound like. It’s all Where did I go wrong? and How could she be so stupid? and I ruined my vaginal canal for this?
“Darling,” he says gently, “it’s best not to make such huge life decisions when you’re grieving. Moving to another country on a whim isn’t like you. You’re dependable. Reliable. Grounded. What you need right now is therapy, not Italy.”
“Give me one reason why I should come back to the States.”
“Me.”
He says it like What other reason would anyone need? It makes me smile. “I happen to know for a fact that you come to Italy twice a year for Fashion Week. It’s not like we’d never see each other again. You’ll be here next month.”
He makes a noise of impatience. “Need I remind you that you already have a business to run here?”
“Oh yeah. I didn’t tell you about what happened yet.”
My hollow laugh causes Jenner to say, “Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh is right. There was this fire, see . . .”
When I don’t continue the sentence because my throat has closed, Jenner says, “No. The universe can’t possibly hate you that much.”
I sit on the concrete bench across from the fountain and drop my head into my hand. “Apparently the universe has put me at the top of its most-hated list. I got a call from my landlord yesterday. The shop went up in flames, along with everything in it. My entire life there is gone. Even if I did come back, what would I return to? All that’s left is an apartment that isn’t mine and a reputation as Bradley Wingate’s sloppy seconds. Who’d want me? I’ll always be the girl who was dumped at the altar. I’ll never be able to live that down.”
We’re quiet for several minutes as Jenner absorbs that. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you I saw him.”
I jerk my head up. My heart explodes like a grenade inside my chest. “When? How?”
“He came to my apartment. I made the mistake of opening the door without asking who it was.”
I stand and start to pace to try to work off the tension that’s gripped me. “What did he want?”
“To talk to you.”
When Jenner hesitates, I demand, “What are you leaving out?”
He exhales heavily. “I debated whether I should tell you this, but he looked wrecked. Like he hadn’t slept since the wedding.”
“The nonwedding,” I bite back, furious. How dare Brad stalk Jenner to try to get to me? “And good, I’m glad!”
When Jenner doesn’t respond, I start to get a bad feeling. “What else?”
“He cried.”
I stop pacing abruptly, hold the phone out and look at it, then put it back to my ear. “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you tell me that Brad cried.”
“I did.”
I scoff. “Brad doesn’t
cry! I don’t think he even owns tear ducts! He yawned through his grandmother’s funeral! When the family dog got hit by a car, Brad suggested his mother turn it into mulch for her roses!”
“Well, darling, unless the man recently took up method acting, these tears were bona fide. He sat on my sofa and sobbed like a baby. When I told him your father had died, I thought he’d pass out. He even tried to hug me when he left, if you can imagine.”
I’m so angry I have to stand still and drag deep breaths into my lungs in order to stop myself from kicking the bench over and over and breaking my foot. “Why would you tell him about my father? Why would you tell that asshole anything? Why would you even let him through your door?”
“Because the first thing out of his mouth was that he knew he cocked the whole thing up. And the second thing out of his mouth was that he was the biggest idiot on the planet and didn’t deserve you. Since we were in such agreement about the basics, I thought I’d hear him out.”
“He left me at the altar!” I shout into the phone, my face burning. “He humiliated me! I hate his guts and wish he was dead!”
“Except you don’t,” says Jenner softly.
When I don’t say anything—because I’m too emotional to speak—Jenner continues, “Do you remember what you said when I told you that I’d never seen you so happy after you and Brad started dating? You said, ‘Every time I look at him, I feel like it’s the first time I’ve seen the sun.’”
“I was a fool,” I whisper bitterly, angrily swiping at the tear cresting my lower lid.
“Maybe. And maybe so was he.”
When I growl at this betrayal, Jenner rushes to add, “I’m not saying give him a second chance. I know it’s beyond that. I’m saying maybe just . . . listen to what he has to say. For your own peace of mind. For closure, if nothing else. If he really didn’t care about your feelings, he never would’ve sat there and let me vomit my disdain all over him. He took it for half an hour, darling, nodding and crying the entire time.”
I try to picture it but can’t. Brad was obviously the victim of a body snatcher. There’s no way in hell he’d allow Jenner to give him a dressing down, or cry, never in a million years.
Yet apparently he did.
“I can’t deal with this shit right now. I’ve got a wicked stepmother, canine stepsisters, and an arrogant, infuriating stepbrother I’d like to do all kinds of dirty things with. I’ve got my father’s funeral to attend, his business to salvage, and my former life to kiss goodbye. I’ve got no money and nowhere to live except under the same roof as the woman who refused to visit my father when he was dying.”
I start to get teary. “I am not living my best life right now, okay? The last thing I need to hear about is fucking Brad and his fucking regrets. If you see him again, tell him that if he really wants to make it up to me, he can slice off his balls, put them in a blender, and live stream it on the internet! Then maybe he’ll start to have an idea how I feel!”
I disconnect the call before Jenner can hear me break down.
Then I sit on the bench and cry until I hear Dominic’s car driving up the gravel road to the house. When I stand, wiping my face with the backs of my hands, I happen to glance up at the house.
The marchesa stands at her bedroom window, gazing down at me with an expression of intense concentration. When she sees me looking, she turns and disappears, the drapes swinging closed behind her like the folds of a shroud.
TWELVE
Though Dominic keeps trying to engage me in conversation on the drive to Papa’s shop after I collect my luggage from the hotel, I’m silent. Seething. My hands balled into fists on my legs, I can’t stop thinking about Brad and his visit to Jenner, no matter how hard I try.
By the time we pull up in front of the shop, I’ve got a headache from gritting my teeth so hard.
“You’re quiet today,” says Dominic gently, unlocking the door.
It’s an invitation to talk, but talking is the last thing I want to do. Right now, I need to work.
Dominic hits the switch on the wall beside the door, flooding the room with light. The front of the shop is a small retail space, with racks of elegant dresses in all colors of the rainbow, two small fitting rooms behind hanging curtains, and a counter with an old-fashioned cash register. Lead-paned windows overlook the cobblestone street outside. It smells of new fabric and old wood. The spicy aftershave Papa always wore lingers faintly in the air, like a ghost.
“It’s exactly the same as I remember,” I say, looking around. How did he manage to do all this alone?
As if he can read my thoughts, Dominic says, “Your father recently hired helpers, three ladies he trained to take orders and measurements, cut the cloth. The sewing he always did himself, of course.” He crosses to the counter with the register, jingling the keys in his hand. “Still no answering machine, though.” He catches my eye and smiles. “Or computer.”
“Or website. It’s like he didn’t believe the twenty-first century was a thing.”
Dominic chuckles. “He only got an email address so he could communicate with you. If they didn’t have computers for public use at the library, he would’ve kept sending letters.”
I drift over to a headless mannequin situated on a dais between the two single dressing rooms. She wears a gown of palest pink, cinched at the waist and cut generously through the hips, with a plunging neckline and cap sleeves. It’s feminine to the extreme, exquisitely chic. When I look at the tag, I sigh in exasperation.
“No wonder he was broke.”
An examination of several more dresses reveals a truth I’ve known all my life: My father should’ve had a business partner. Some artists can successfully create and deal with money, but he wasn’t one of them.
“I offered many times to assist, but you know how stubborn he was.” Dominic shakes his head at the price of a gorgeous silk scarf draped on a stand next to the counter. It’s probably missing a few digits, like everything else.
I look around for a moment, taking stock of the situation. “Okay. First I’ve got to go through the inventory and reprice everything. Then we need to look at the advertising budget—”
“Advertising?” Dominic snorts.
“Don’t tell me he was still relying only on word of mouth?”
Dominic lifts a shoulder. “Old dog. No new tricks.”
I drag my hands through my hair, knowing it’s gonna be a long night. “Can you drop my luggage off at the house for me? I’m not sure how late I’ll get back, and it’ll be easier for me to come in without all my stuff.”
Dominic hesitates, looking confused. “You’re not moving to another hotel?”
“Nope. I’m moving in with the marchesa.” His expression is so horrified I have to laugh. “It’s a long story. The bottom line is that I’ve decided I’m not selling Papa’s business. I’m going to stay here and run it.”
Dominic blinks slowly, standing stock-still behind the counter. “Is your husband moving here, too?”
God. How many times am I going to have to tell this story? “We broke up.”
He’s stunned. Apparently he also feels the need to ward away any evil I might be carrying because he makes the sign of the cross over his chest.
Annoyed, I walk past him and through the door leading to the production area in the back of the shop. It’s much messier back here, with bolts of cloth and color sketches strewn across work tables, dozens of mannequins in various stages of undress standing around like headless party guests, and sewing stations, file cabinets, and boxes waiting to be unpacked.
Pinned to a corkboard on the wall above a workstation hang photographs of me at various stages of my life. The latest one is a Polaroid from the last time I visited, five years ago. Papa had me laughing at some terrible joke he’d made and took the picture before I could stop him. My head is thrown back. My eyes are closed. My mouth is wide open. I look happy.
I’m seized by a terrible feeling of guilt. Five years. I spent that time trying to buil
d my business and going gaga over Brad, and what was my father doing?
Slowly going broke and falling in love with a vulture.
So, samesies.
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Dominic sounds rattled. He’s followed me in from the other room and stands in the doorway, looking disturbed. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head and leave it at that.
He opens his mouth to say something else, but we’re interrupted by loud knocking from the front room. Someone’s at the door.
Not just anyone, I see as I move past Dominic into the front room.
Him.
I jerk open the door and glare at Matteo. “What’re you doing here?”
He smiles, looking me over with hungry eyes like I’m a cupcake on display in a bakery case and he’d like to lick off all my icing. “I was in the neighborhood and saw the lights on.”
“Liar.”
His smile deepens, dimpling his cheeks. “You know what they say. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
“They also say you don’t have to be a cactus expert to know a prick when you see one.”
His eyes flash. “Is it just my dick you’re obsessed with, or dicks in general?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. And while you’re busy not flattering yourself, leave.”
He purses his lips, as if he’s considering it. Then he says casually, “No,” and strolls past me into the shop.
I slam the door and turn to him with my arms crossed over my chest. “Oh, I get it. On the lookout for more designs to steal, is that it?” I smile sweetly at his withering look.
“You seem to have a mental block about the facts, so let me remind you that you gave me that sketch pad, bella.”
I hate the way goose bumps form over my arms when he calls me that. There’s something so intimate about it. A note of secret knowledge hums in it, an undertone of sensuality, as if he knows how I sound when I come.
“I’m not going over this with you again. Get out.”
“Oh. Ciao.” Ignoring my request, Matteo addresses Dominic, standing in the doorway to the back room.
Dominic looks back and forth between us with his brows drawn together. I can’t tell exactly what his expression is, but I’m sure it’s not happiness.
Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3) Page 9