Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3)

by J. T. Geissinger

  His voice grows heavy. “They still think I’m trying to get you back.”

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to do about that?”

  “Nope. Have you thought about what you’re going to do about Matteo?”

  “He’s giving me space to make sure he’s not a rebound. There’s nothing to do except make sure he’s not a rebound.”

  “He’s not,” says Brad, as if he’s an authority on the subject. “I know you, and I know you have real feelings for him. It might be bad timing, but that’s not the end of the world.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Phil. I wish you would’ve been this clear-sighted about our wedding.”

  “Me too. Sorry again, by the way. If we’re not doing the modeling thing, you’ll have to think of some other way for me to make it up to you.”

  I’m overcome by a wave of exhaustion. All I want to do is crawl back into bed and hide under the covers until I’m old. “Just be happy. That’s enough.”

  “You want me to be happy?”

  He sounds choked up, which makes me even more tired. I can’t deal with anyone else’s emotional breakdowns right now. I’m too busy handling my own. “I’d hate to think we went through all that trauma and neither of us was better for it in the end. So yes. I want you to be happy. You deserve it.”

  After a moment of silence, Brad bursts into tears.

  “For God’s sake, are you taking hormones or something?”

  He sobs. “Don’t shout at me! I’m emotional!”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” I flop back into the chair and close my eyes. Maybe it’s all a bad dream. Maybe I’m going to wake up any second and it will all be over. “I have to go now. My straitjacket is calling.”

  “Fine.” He sniffles, drawing in a shuddering breath. “But if you need to talk about Matteo, I’m here.”

  He hangs up, leaving me wondering if my life will ever make sense again.

  For the next week, I bury myself in work. I log in so many hours at the shop, I give up going back to the house overnight and sleep on a cot in the office. Clara keeps me fed. Anxiety keeps me company. Whenever Jenner or Danielle call to get an update on Matteo, I tell them the same thing. “We haven’t talked.”

  I’m beginning to think he’s as stubborn as I am.

  Then, on the tenth day after our argument, I receive an invitation in the mail. It’s on pure-white linen, engraved with gold-foil script. My name is written in calligraphy on a line below the elegant House of Moretti logo, followed by a date, time, and the address of the Royal Palace of Milan, where the showing of their couture collection will be held.

  Clara sees me holding it and asks what it is.

  “Kimberella got her invitation to the ball,” I answer, smiling.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The first thing I have to do is figure out what to wear.

  I’ve never been to an haute couture show, because they’re strictly invite only. Even if you’re a Saudi princess or Beyoncé, without that invitation in hand, you can’t get past the door. The women who wear the world’s finest and most expensive handmade clothing are a certain breed, most of whom don’t want to be named publicly or, God forbid, photographed. Designers are famously tight lipped about their clientele, too, so the entire process gains a secret, sacred air.

  It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance for me to model one of my own designs.

  There will be more potential buyers at this show than I could ever hope to reach individually. If I could even somehow determine who they were, which I couldn’t. Each designer’s list of clients is as protected as if they’re state secrets.

  Aside from sending clothes to every high-profile celebrity in hopes of having one of them wear something of mine in public, the only way to break into the rarefied society of women who collect and wear haute couture is by word of mouth.

  I’ll be a walking billboard for my work.

  Which means whatever I wear has to be perfect. We have only a few days to complete the collection and alter whatever design I choose to my measurements.

  The problem is deciding on that design.

  “The sequined powder blue with the ostrich cuffs,” suggests Clara as I critically eye every dress we’ve been working on.

  “Too dramatic.”

  “The leather and satin with buckles on the waist.”

  “Too edgy.”

  “The red silk with the plunging neckline.”

  “Too sexy.”

  “The sleeveless purple with the sheer overlay on the skirt.”

  I turn to inspect the dress pinned to the muslin form next to Sofia’s workstation. Look nine is spectacular, if I do say so myself. It’s a deep royal purple with a full satin skirt and a sheer panel attached at the small of the back, designed to float out like a sail with the wearer’s movement. The bodice is made of hand-dyed lace appliqued with tiny sequins and overlaid below the breasts with a horizontal wrap of silk to accentuate the waist. The high slit in the skirt adds a dash of sex appeal, but the overall design is elegant and sophisticated.

  I clap, hopping a little in excitement. “That’s it! Clara, you’re a genius.”

  “I know,” she says. “Now what are we going to do about lunch?”

  I give her a big kiss on the cheek, then order sandwiches from the deli down the street. After we eat, I go back to work with renewed energy, counting down the minutes until I can see Matteo again.

  Three days later, the purple dress is finished, we’re putting the final touches on the rest of the designs for the new collection, and Jenner has arrived in Milan. He alerted me of that fact by sending a text that read Elvis is in the house.

  When I call him, he picks up on the first ring.

  “Moshi moshi.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re inside the Japanese guy again.”

  He sighs theatrically. “Alas, lovely Hiro and I have parted ways.”

  “But you’ll forever honor his memory when you answer the phone,” I say, laughing.

  “I’m sentimental that way. How are you, darling? You sound better than the last time we spoke.”

  “I’m a little better, mainly because of the invitation.”

  I can tell his interest is piqued by the way his tone sharpens. “Invitation?”

  “To Matteo’s show at the Royal Palace.”

  “So you won’t have to crash the gig after all!”

  “We, I think you meant.”

  He sniffs. “I deny all knowledge of your ludicrous scheme and would happily tell that to any concerned authorities.”

  “Puh. You know I would’ve talked you into it.”

  “Of course,” he says blithely. “But only because I’m frightened you’ll clobber me. I was there when you rearranged Satan’s nose, if you recall. How is he, by the way?”

  “Still gay. And in love with someone named Giancarlo.”

  “Giancarlo,” purrs Jenner. “How delicious. I think I’m in love with him, too. Pity I’ll never meet him. I could avenge your honor by breaking them up.”

  “Oh, you’ll probably meet him. Brad has decided he’s moving to Florence to be with the new boy toy. And he’s hanging on to me like a bad head cold. I’m sure if I told him I was going to Milan for the show, he and Gio would be on the next train out.”

  After a moment, Jenner chuckles. “Well, no one can say your life is boring.”

  I exhale and sit in my office chair, feeling as if I’ve aged a decade in the past month. “I could do with a little boring right about now, let me tell you.”

  “What’s new with the wicked stepmother and your doggie stepsisters?”

  “It turns out she isn’t so wicked. God, I have a lot to catch you up on. When can I see you?”

  He tells me the name of the hotel he’s staying in, then insists I get ready for Matteo’s show in his suite because he doesn’t trust I’ll do my hair right or accessorize properly. It sounds like a fabulous idea, so I agree.

  I’ll need the moral support. Tomorrow will be two week
s since I’ve seen Matteo, and I’m more worried than I want to admit about how it will be between us. I miss him so much it feels like a limb has been cut off, but I have no idea how he feels or what he’s thinking. He hasn’t contacted me since the night he walked out.

  I’m terrified he’s changed his mind about us.

  Even more terrified than I am of him breaking my heart, which says a lot.

  “Stop fidgeting.”

  “Hurry up! I’ll be late!”

  Standing behind me in the gleaming marble bathroom in his hotel suite, Jenner carefully affixes the comb into my upswept hair, then steps back to survey his handiwork. He nods in satisfaction. “Half-up, half-down. Sophisticated but sexy. Congratulations, you’re perfect.”

  “I’m also sweating through this friggin’ dress,” I mutter, flapping my arms in an effort to cool myself. The air conditioning is blowing right on me from a vent in the bathroom ceiling, but my body has decided it’s time for another searing hot flash.

  I know it’s hormonal. I’ll be seeing Matteo in a short while, and my damn uterus is throwing a rave party complete with flashing lights and disco music. I’m a wreck.

  Jenner takes me by the shoulders. “Just breathe, darling. Like so.”

  He inhales slowly though his nose, then blows the breath out through pursed lips.

  “I know how to breathe.”

  “Clearly you don’t. You’re hyperventilating.” He demonstrates another dramatic intake of breath through his flared nostrils, nodding at me to follow his lead.

  “Ugh. Fine.” I breathe as theatrically as possible, mimicking him. “Oh,” I say several calming breaths later. “That actually works.”

  He smiles. “Now we’re going to practice walking.”

  “Walking? I already know how to do that!”

  He arches an eyebrow in disagreement. “When wearing couture, one doesn’t simply stomp around as if mashing grapes underfoot. One glides.” He floats away from me as if on a cloud, his lower legs moving but his upper body completely still. It’s quite the effect.

  “I’ll never be able to copy that, catwalk boy. And thanks for that ego-boosting description of how I move. It was just the shot in the arm I needed.”

  When I glare at him, he dissolves into laughter. “Oh, Poppins. I tease. Your walk is lovely. I’m only trying to loosen you up.”

  “Please, no more loosening. It’s having the opposite effect. I’m wound so tight I might snap.”

  “I know,” he says softly, coming back to rest his hands on my shoulders. “It all feels a bit déjà vu, doesn’t it? The last time we were in a room together prepping you for a big event, it didn’t end quite as planned.”

  “Hopefully this time will be different. Knock wood.” I reach out and lightly rap my knuckles against his temple.

  “Very funny. At least you’re not carrying calla lilies.”

  “That reminds me. Where’s my clutch?”

  “Here.” He picks it up from the counter, then makes a face at it. “What’s in this thing? Rocks?”

  “Lip gloss, my phone, and a giant stack of business cards. If all goes well I’ll be handing them out like candy.”

  He chuckles. “I love it that you’re going into this with such an entrepreneurial spirit.”

  I practice the deep breathing again because my heart has decided it would be a good time to pound. “It would be smarter if I were going into it with a belly full of Xanax. God, this is worse than the wedding. My nerves are shot!”

  I hold out a hand, and we watch it tremble.

  Jenner murmurs, “You really have feelings for him, don’t you?”

  What an understatement. “Turns out that old adage ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’ is true. I just wish . . .”

  When I’m silent too long, Jenner prompts, “What?”

  I look up into his eyes and say quietly, “I wish it could be easier.”

  “It?”

  “Love. Relationships. Why does it all have to be so confusing and convoluted?”

  He sighs, smoothing a hand over my hair. “Because real life isn’t a fairy tale, darling, and making a relationship last is hard. Love involves a lot of forgiveness. People aren’t perfect. Falling in love is easy, but staying in love is a choice. You have to decide if the ups and downs are worth sticking out because there will be plenty of them. There will be pain.

  “That’s where we all go wrong, expecting love to be a Hallmark commercial where you run through a field of clover into each other’s arms and live happily ever after with no regrets. True love is when you can look at someone and say, ‘I know you will hurt me and disappoint me and fail me in a thousand different ways, and I accept that because you make me a better person. Because with you I become whole. Because I’d rather die than live a single day without you, come what may.”

  I stare at him, blinking back tears so I don’t ruin my mascara. “Honestly, you’re the last person in the world I would’ve expected that from.”

  He swallows hard, looking away. When he speaks, his voice is low and rough. “Not all of us are brave enough to risk our hearts being broken more than once. Not all of us could survive it.”

  I’m shocked by that. Ten years I’ve known this man, and this is the first time I’ve glimpsed the lovelorn side of him. Apparently his revolving door of partners started after a heartbreak so big he couldn’t come back from it.

  I ask gently, “Are you gonna tell me about it?”

  He draws himself up, tosses his head, and forces a bright smile. “Not right before you hop into your carriage to head off to the ball. Come on, let’s get going. I have a surprise for you.”

  “Xanax?”

  “Better. A limo. And you don’t have to worry about it turning into a pumpkin at midnight. I paid extra for that.”

  With a furtive swipe of a knuckle at the corner of his eye, he leads me by the elbow from the room.

  The palace is a massive blocky neoclassical structure set in the heart of Milan, right next to a white cathedral that looms over it with skyscraping spires. The facade of the palace is spectacularly uplit in washes of red light, making the building glow like a ruby against the sapphire evening sky. Ruffled by the breeze, a row of crimson banners emblazoned with the Moretti logo hangs from the roof, boldly declaring the palace’s occupant for the night.

  Matteo definitely knows how to put his stamp on things.

  My heart included.

  As the limo pulls into the palazzo entrance and slows to a stop, I practice more of Jenner’s deep-breathing techniques because I’m about to faint from nerves. A uniformed valet opens the door and helps me out, appreciatively eyeing the expanse of bare thigh revealed by the slit in my skirt.

  “Buongiorno, bellissima,” he says in a husky baritone, smiling at me with smoldering bedroom eyes the color of espresso.

  Whew. Italian men. They could get a girl pregnant through osmosis.

  I join a flow of exquisitely dressed people entering the palace through a designated door and show my invitation to a burly guard dressed all in black. He checks my name off a list, then nods, allowing me to pass into a spectacular hall echoing with marble and lit with dozens of crystal chandeliers sparkling in icy-cold brilliance overhead. Feeling self-conscious but pleased by all the admiring looks my gown is getting, I follow the crowd up a sweeping red-carpeted staircase to the second floor.

  At the landing, I enter another world.

  Thick piles of red rose petals are sculpted into drifts along the walls and balustrade. Thousands of red rose heads have been strung together and hang at irregular heights from the ceiling like vines. Glass vases taller than I am are filled with water, red petals, and floating candles, and stand flickering between the drifts, lending everything an ethereal glow. The soft strains of violins play through hidden speakers, and the air is perfumed with the scent of roses and candle wax.

  The overall effect is magical, sensual, and breathtakingly romantic.

  Tall carved wooden doors stand ope
n to a soaring ballroom, where rows of seats flanking a catwalk lit from beneath in pink lights await. People mill about inside, pretending to glibly chat as they check out who’s who and what they’re wearing.

  Another uniformed guard at the door is checking invitations again and pointing out seat assignments. I get mine—front row center, be still my heart—then take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and enter the room.

  And instantly feel the touch of a cool hand on my arm.

  “Mi scusi, signorina.”

  I turn to see a woman standing beside me. She’s extremely pale, with waist-length black hair, cheekbones like the freshly sharpened edge of a knife, and eyes that probably don’t close all the way when she sleeps because of the amount of skin that has been removed from her lids by plastic surgery. Her dress is a slinky black silk number that shows off a pair of savage hipbones. She looks as if she last had a solid meal in the nineties.

  Her companion is a woman who looks exactly like Vogue editor Anna Wintour.

  I’m so unnerved by the possibility that it might actually be Anna Wintour that I try to smile but bare my teeth like a cornered wolf instead. “Yes?”

  The woman says something to me in Italian, gesturing at my dress.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian.”

  Anna Wintour says, “She wants to know who you’re wearing.”

  “Oh! Me! I’m wearing me!” I smile again, aiming for a credible impression of a human this time.

  Anna and Morticia share a look. “You’re a designer?”

  Morticia covetously eyes my dress. I think she wants to pet me, or maybe take me hostage. My ambition suggests we’ll accept either.

  “Yes. Here’s my card.”

  Morticia takes it, lifts it to her nose, and tries to squint at it. If only she had enough extra skin around her eyes to pull it off.

  “Grazie.” The two drift away, whispering with their heads bent together.

  I suppose that went well, but don’t have time to dwell on it, because the lights dim and the music grows louder, indicating the show is about to begin.

  Unfortunately, my nervous bladder has decided it’s time for a bathroom break.