MATTEO
I see her number on my phone, and it feels as if I’ve been shot through the heart.
No one ever told me this love business would be so painful.
I take a deep breath and hit “Answer.” “It’s you.”
“It’s me. Please don’t hang up.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good. Because I need to say important things, and I need you to listen.”
Frowning at the strange tone of her voice, I stand from the chair I’ve been sitting in for the past hour and feeling sorry for myself. “Have you been drinking?”
“Yes!” She sighs, going from enthusiastic to wistful. “But not because I needed liquid courage to call you. Because I was depressed.”
That makes two of us. I stare at the flames crackling in the fireplace, wishing my chest wasn’t so tight so I could breathe.
“Are you still there?”
“I’m here.” I lower my voice. “And I don’t like the idea of you drinking alone.”
“Cut me some slack, Count. It’s not every day I get dumped by the man of my dreams. And before you ask, no, I didn’t get drunk after Brad left me at the altar, and no, he wasn’t the man of my dreams. He was a fantasy I made up in my head who ticked off a bunch of boxes that didn’t matter because they weren’t real. You’re real. You’re what I was looking for all along, only I was too busy dealing with all my disasters to realize it.”
She pauses for a moment. “Though I have to admit that you’re incredibly irritating when you want to be. I’ve never met anyone who can do smug better than you.”
That roar in my ears is my pulse. I can hardly hear her voice above it. I’m not sure how much of what she’s saying is the alcohol, how much is the truth, or if I want to know the difference. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
She laughs. It loosens some of the tightness in my chest. “You get a gold star for effort, that’s for sure.”
My mouth wants to turn up into a smile, as it always wants to when I hear her voice. Or see her face. Or think of her.
But I meant what I told her earlier. She needs time. I won’t be a rebound. I can’t be—not for her.
I have to be her everything, or nothing at all.
“M’kay, you’re doing your silent smoldering thing, so I’m just gonna go ahead and talk, and you can be over there all broody and non-sharey to your heart’s content.”
“Exactly how much alcohol did you drink?” I say, worried.
“I want you.”
She says it with total disregard for my question, with an abruptness that borders on curt, and with a dark, solemn tone that makes it clear she’s completely serious.
Suddenly I’m no longer concerned about her alcohol intake.
“I want you because you’re smart, and you’re funny, and you’re talented, and you respect your mother, and you make me feel capable of murder, and flight.”
“When you kiss me, I feel like I grow wings. It’s a cliché, but it’s true, so bear with me.”
I understand exactly what you mean.
“I want you because I’ve never met anyone who challenges me like you do. Who looks at me like you do. Who makes my heart stop beating the way you do when you walk into a room.”
The tightness in my chest is back with a vengeance. It’s in my throat, too. I have to struggle to draw a single breath.
We sit in silence for a while, until she adds, “Also, your hair is incredible.”
Now I can’t help but smile. “You’ve been talking to my mother.”
“I really like her.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am surprised.”
I chuckle. “She’s an acquired taste. But worth it.”
“Totally. Moving on.” She hiccups. “I have many more compliments for you if you’d like to hear them.”
God, she’s adorable. And completely drunk. “I’d like to hear you drink a large glass of water, take aspirin, and go to bed.”
Her voice softens. “Why don’t you come over and put me to bed?”
The thought of her lying naked in her bed makes me groan.
“Was that a yes groan or a no groan?”
“It was a groan of frustration.”
“Drive over here and be frustrated. We can be frustrated together. Until we’re not.” She giggles.
“I can’t be a rebound,” I say, my voice thick. “I can’t be a placeholder or a crutch until you get your life together. I meant what I said: you need time—”
“What I need is for you to stop telling me what I need and get your ass over here,” she cuts in. “What I need is to kiss you and apologize and tell you all about how I was plotting to crash your show at Fashion Week.”
Cue the sound of squealing brakes. Crash my show?
“Yeah, it was dumb,” she admits sheepishly when I don’t say anything. “I was gonna make Brad wear a really pretty dress I’ve been working on—hopefully Jenner and some of his model friends, too, but he wasn’t on board yet—and get up on the catwalk with a sign around his neck that read Moretti Sucks Balls. Or something like that. I hadn’t exactly figured it out yet.
“But you broke up with me, and I realized it was a stupid plan and it wasn’t revenge I wanted, it was you. And the way to get you probably didn’t involve making a scene at your show.”
She’s got me completely confused. “Who is Jenner, and why the hell would your ex agree to wear a dress?”
“Jenner’s my best friend from San Francisco. You’ll meet him, he’s great. He’s coming to Italy for Fashion Week. And Brad’s still trying to make amends for the whole wedding debacle.”
I’ll bet he is.
If she’s trying to make me jealous, it’s working. My blood pressure just shot through the roof. Though she told me not two minutes ago he wasn’t the man of her dreams, she also told me they had “unfinished business.” Now she’s telling me he was willing to completely humiliate himself in public to make amends for how he humiliated her.
The son of a bitch is still trying to get her back.
I should’ve broken his legs when I had the chance.
“Hello?” she says, sounding nervous.
“Still here.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No, bella,” I murmur, wanting her so bad it’s a physical ache. “But you’ve been drinking, and I already told you I don’t take advantage of incapacitated women.”
“I am very capacitated,” she says, attempting to sound sober. It would’ve been a passable attempt, too, except for the burp at the end.
Even that is adorable.
More proof that I’m totally gone for this woman. That I’m doing the right thing by staying away.
The last thing she needs is another man muddying the waters. She has to decide what she wants for herself.
In time.
When she’s sober.
Since she brought up Fashion Week and the show, I’m tempted to tell her about my own plan, but decide now isn’t the time.
Besides, I want it to be a surprise. That was my intent from the beginning.
“Go to sleep, bella,” I say, though it nearly kills me.
“You’re blowing me off again?” She sounds outraged and so dejected I have to grit my teeth against the urge to grab my keys, run from the room, and go to her.
“No, I’m saying good night.” Good night, sleep tight, I’m madly in love with you.
“I can’t believe my groveling didn’t work,” she grumbles to herself. “That was some A-plus groveling.”
“It was. Go to sleep.”
She sighs. “Fine. But if I die of alcohol poisoning, you can’t say I didn’t try to convince you to come over here and save me.”
She hangs up before I can say another word, leaving me staring at the phone.
Definitely the death of me.
I swipe my car keys from the dresser and head out, growling under my breath.
When she wakes up in the morning, she’s going to have worse things than a hangover to deal with.