When I wake again, the angle of the light slanting through the windows high on the stone walls tells me it’s no longer morning. My headache is better, but my mouth still tastes rank, and I really have to pee.
I’d move but there’s a heavy arm thrown over me, pinning me in place.
Matteo and I are in the same position we were when I fell back to sleep, only now he’s asleep, too. His breathing is deep and even. He doesn’t snore, which makes me hate him even more.
One of these days I’ll discover what faults he has other than egomania and a tendency toward the theft of intellectual property.
I carefully grasp his wrist and begin to move it so I can get up.
“Forget it. You’re not sneaking off.” His voice is deep and scratchy with sleep. He tightens his arm around me.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
A low noise of disagreement rumbles through his chest.
“Like . . . bad.”
He withdraws his arm, gives my waist a squeeze, then a gentle push. “If you’re not back in three minutes, I’m coming to look for you.”
“Irritating,” I mutter, and throw off the covers. I hop off the bed and head toward a door standing ajar on the other side of the room, hoping it’s the bathroom. I’m relieved to find that it is and quickly shut the door behind me.
I give myself a fright when I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. I’ve got puffy raccoon eyes and something perched on my head that looks like roadkill. I take care of business, then wash my hands and attempt to smooth down my hair. I splash cold water on my face and find a tube of toothpaste in a drawer. I refuse to use Matteo’s toothbrush, so I squeeze a blob onto my finger and do the best I can to smush it around in my mouth and get rid of some of the fur on my teeth.
When I’m done, I open the door to find Matteo standing in front of a big wooden armoire, removing a fresh white dress shirt from a hanger.
He’s naked from the waist up.
I freeze like one of those pointer dogs when it finds the dead bird its master shot down. My eyes bulge out of my head. I exhale a long, unsteady breath.
He’s so stunning I’m not sure I’ll be able to remain standing if I continue to look at him.
He’s art. Masculine, muscular, beautiful art. Those rippling muscles in his back. Those biceps, hard and meaty. That sleek, flat stomach.
That chiseled V leading down from his abs below the belt of his pants.
Crap. I think I just moaned out loud.
“You’re staring,” says Matteo, sounding amused. Slinging the shirt around his shoulders, he glances over at me. I want to look away as he slides one arm into the shirt, then the other, but I’m in pointer-dog mode and can’t move an inch.
In a fantastic display of intelligence, I say, “Nuh-uh.” And keep staring.
“Oh. My mistake.” He turns to face me, leaving the shirt unbuttoned.
It’s a gift. He’s giving me a gift, is what he’s doing. This might be the nicest present anyone has ever given me. Even his belly button is perfect. And my God! His chest! Michelangelo could’ve carved that chest!
My uterus slow claps, then faints.
After what could be several weeks, I manage to drag my gaze up from his magnificent body to his face. He’s biting his lower lip. His gorgeous blue eyes are bright with laughter.
Shit. “Not a word, Moretti, unless you want a black eye.”
He lifts his hands in a surrendering gesture and shakes his head, but his stomach clenches with silent laughter. Of course that makes every muscle stand out in 3-D, so now I’m looking at a tanned six-pack the likes of which I’ve never seen. It should be illegal for the effect it’s having on my body.
The damn thing is an uncontrolled substance. His abdomen is a dangerous, dangerous drug.
I’d like to push my face into it and snort it up.
“I’ll walk home,” I pronounce, face flaming, and head toward the door.
“It would take hours. And you don’t know the way.”
“I’ll call a taxi,” I say over my shoulder. I stop at the door and look down at my bare feet.
“Your shoes are next to the bed.”
I lift my chin and go on the hunt for my shoes, which are indeed next to the bed. I slip them on, avoiding Matteo’s laughing gaze, and head to the door again.
He stops me with, “How are you going to get a taxi without a phone or money?”
When I turn and look at him, he smiles. “You didn’t bring your purse with you.”
“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”
“Just wait there a minute. I’ll drive you.”
He buttons his shirt. By that I mean he makes love to the shirt with his fingers, caressing each button with slow, sensual strokes as he slips them through the buttonholes at the speed at which honey would drip down a wall. It’s a pornographic performance, one that could earn him an Oscar for hotness.
The entire time, he stares at me with a look. That look, the one that makes me weak in the knees.
“Those eyes,” he murmurs, smiling.
I turn and leave before my uterus can revive itself and cause any more trouble.
Neither of us speaks on the ride back to Il Sogno. As soon as he slows to a stop, I leap from the car. I don’t look back. I head inside and go straight up to my bedroom, where I flop facedown onto the bed and ponder the situation.
There’s no denying it.
I want to jump Matteo’s bones.
I’m disappointed in myself because he is—or was—a relative, so ew. He’s another good-looking, entitled egomaniac like Brad, and I’ve sworn off those, and he’s also a heartless jerk who wants to pass off my designs as his own. Unfortunately, none of that can be helped. The only thing I can control is how I deal with this whole debacle.
The main problem is proximity. If I’m going to be living in this house with his mother until she kicks the bucket, I’ll be seeing a lot of him.
Maybe the idea of moving to Florence was a tad premature.
I suppose I could get my father’s business back into the black and look for a buyer then. That would at least guarantee I’d get a fair price for it, instead of having to sell at a bargain-basement price because of all the current debt. That way I’d have some money to pay for the flight home, the rent I owe on my ash pile of a dress shop, and first and last month’s rent on a new apartment.
That seems like a solid plan, until I remember what’s waiting for me in San Francisco.
Humiliation galore.
How long would it be before I’d be comfortable showing my face in public? Do I have the strength to endure all the whispers and giggles I’d hear while standing in line at Starbucks waiting for my morning latte?
But maybe I’m being overly dramatic. I’m no celebrity, after all. Yes, the paparazzi were after me because I was the hot story of the moment, but surely some other scandal will soon come along and everyone will forget who I am. In fact, I could already be yesterday’s news.
Excited at the thought, I jump up and snatch my handbag from the dresser. I dig out my phone and send Jenner a text.
Nobody in San Fran will still be talking about me in like a month, right?
He texts back within a minute.
I hate to tell you this, darling, but an executive from the Lifetime channel called my agent to see how they could contact you. They want to make a movie.
OMFG. Please tell me that’s a joke.
I wish it were. How are you?
Busy having a breakdown. I’ll call you later.
I flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling in dismay.
Where could I get a new identity? They make it look so easy in the movies, but I don’t know anyone even remotely criminal. Do I just walk into a passport photo place and drop hints about fleeing the country while flashing a wad of cash?
Maybe Lorenzo knows someone. Or Dominic. I bet he has ties to the mob—he knows everybody. Plus, he’s Sicilian. They’re super old school.
I’m deep in thought when my cell phone rings. It’s a phone number I don’t recognize. “Hello?”
“Please don’t hang up.”
It’s Satan. Instantly my blood pressure shoots up a hundred points. “You have a death wish, don’t you?”
He ignores my question and plows ahead with all the finesse of a bulldozer. “Five million cash plus the deed to the new house.”
“In exchange for my soul and what’s left of my self-respect? No.”
“I’ll throw in the apartment. The lease is up at the end of the month, but I’ll keep paying it. You could use it as a studio.”
“Or you could buy me a studio on Fillmore in Pacific Heights like I always wanted.”
His shout is gleeful. “Yes! Totally! You pick the place!”
I sigh, amazed at this idiot. “That was a joke, dumbass.”
“Oh. Okay.” He has the nerve to sound crestfallen.
“Where are you calling me from? I want to make sure I block the number.”
“I’m staying at a hotel downtown. And I’m gonna stay here until I can figure out how to make it up to you.”
I picture his face as I walked down the aisle toward him, the horror in his eyes, and have to pinch the bridge of my nose hard enough so the pain distracts me from crying. “Here’s an idea: light yourself on fire.”
There’s a pause, like he’s considering it. I jerk upright in bed. “That was another joke!”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
In a small, pathetic voice he says, “I’m lost without you. I didn’t realize how much you meant to me until you were gone.”
I throw a pillow across the room and shout into the phone, “Boo-frickin’-hoo, dickface! And by the way, you’re gay!”
From somewhere downstairs, Cornelia whimpers.
Brad’s quiet for a moment, then he heaves another big world-weary sigh. “Yeah. It’s been really hard hiding it from everyone. I feel a lot better since I told you.”
My eyes narrow. “I swear to God, dude, I’mma cut a bitch if you keep this shit up.”
“It’s the truth! I’ve known since I was like six or something, but you know how my dad’s always going on about family values and homosexuality being from the devil and, y’know, all that stuff.”
I do know. Once over brunch Senator Wingate lectured me for twenty minutes about the evils of “progressives” and their “backward” ideas about marriage. I think he’s still bitter women got the vote.
“There are plenty of people with judgmental assholes for parents who don’t go to the trouble of ruining an innocent person’s life because they’re too scared to stand up to Mommy and Daddy and live the life they really want.”
He whispers, “I know.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why am I listening to this? “If you really want to make it up to me, come out to your parents.”
His silence is horrified. “No . . . no, what I’m saying—”
“I hear what you’re saying. You need to hear what I’m saying: It’s not gonna happen. I’m not gonna be your beard. I need love, Brad. Real love. A life to share and a strong shoulder to lean on, someone to build a future with. Have a family with. Grow old with. I wanted all that with you but you robbed me. And the really shitty part, the thing I just can’t get over, is that you made me believe you wanted it all, too.” My voice breaks. “You made me believe you loved me as much as I loved you.”
“I do love you,” he says urgently. “I swear I do.”
“Even if you do, it’s not the same and you know it.”
We’re silent for a while. I lie back down and close my eyes. I want to hang up, but I know we need to hash this out or he’ll just keep badgering me. Like another irritating person I know, he isn’t used to being told no.
“So who’s the hottie?”
“What?”
“The dark-haired guy you were with yesterday with the amazing blue eyes who looks like a supermodel assassin.”
One of the things I’d often overlooked in my mad scramble toward happily ever after is Brad’s crippling lack of emotional intelligence. I know he’s not deliberately trying to be hurtful, just as I know he needs an explanation to understand exactly why he is.
“Give me a break! You only told me yesterday that you’re gay! We’re not at the point where we’re going to start talking about how hot other guys are!”
“Right. Sorry.” He pauses for no more than three seconds before saying, “But who is he?”
So much for the explanation. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s my stepbrother.”
“Is he single?”
“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that, you moron.”
“It’s just that he’s probably the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. And so intense.” He exhales a quiet breath. “You have no idea how good it feels to be able to say that out loud.”
I clap a hand over my eyes and kick my heels against the mattress. “Can we please be done sharing?”
“Hold on—stepbrother? Your dad remarried?”
“Oh ho! Welcome to the conversation! Jesus, it’s like you have selective hearing. Yes, he remarried.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know. From what I’m told, it was all hush-hush because my father didn’t want to take any attention away from our wedding. He was planning on telling me after we got back from the honeymoon.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever.”
“Finally something on which we agree.”
What sounds like the tearing of a plastic bag comes over the line, followed by the sound of crunching. Apparently Brad has decided it’s time for a snack.
“So what’s his wife like?”
“If Nurse Ratched and the iceberg that sank the Titanic had a love child, it would be her. She was the blonde yesterday who said you should be shot.”
“Yikes. I’m surprised your dad would’ve married someone like that. He seemed so nice.”
Brad and my father never met, but they talked on the phone a few times. We’d planned on coming to Italy after the honeymoon to see him, but like everything else, that plan is kaput.
“I guess falling in love with terrible people runs in the family.”
He’s hurt by the sarcasm in my tone. “I’m not terrible! I’m just—”
“Selfish? Immature? Cowardly? Shallow?”
He crunches another mouthful of whatever he’s eating for a while. Then he swallows and sighs. “Yeah. I suppose I am terrible.”
“So what’re you gonna do about it?”
“I need your help!”
“Unless it’s for castration, count me out. You’re a big boy. Fix your own damn self.”
“How about this—”
“No.”
There must be something in my tone that sounds unequivocal because it shuts him up. Then in a quiet voice, he says, “I’m sorry. I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. I just got caught up in the whole thing. The planning, your excitement, my parents’ excitement. I was so happy that everyone else was happy, but then it felt like I was riding a speeding train and there was no way to get off.”
“You could’ve jumped and saved everyone a lot of trouble,” I say, my tone cutting.
“If I could go back and change it, believe me, I would. I’d do everything differently.”
He sounds so sincere I believe him. More than anything, that makes me sad.
“Please, if there’s anything I can do for you, I will. I . . .” He takes a few deep breaths. When he speaks again, his voice is raw with emotion. “I do care about you. I do love you, in my way. More than anything in the world, I wanted to be what you wanted. I never thought anyone would ever want me for myself.”
Tears again. Quiet, like he’s trying to muffle them.
In spite of my rage, I feel sorry for him. There’s nothing sadder than a grown man crying.
Except maybe a bride deserted at the altar on her wedding day in front of three hundred guests in a gown she sewed herself from fabric her dead father sent her.
What a clusterfuck.
“Look. If you really want to do something for me, have all my stuff at the apartment packed up and put it into storage. I’m not gonna be back in time to get that done before the lease is up.”
“Done. What else?”
“Come out to your parents.”
He groans theatrically, as if he’s been stabbed. “I can’t!”
“So what’s your plan, then, genius? Troll some other stupid girl into falling in love with you so you can keep up this charade of being someone you’re not? Because if I find out you do that, I’ll out you myself.”
There’s a moment of shocked silence. Then he says in a tremulous whisper, “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
“Kimber!”
He has the audacity to sound offended. “You’re lucky I won’t do it anyway, you putz. I don’t believe in revenge, but I won’t let you do to anyone else what you did to me.”
“But if I don’t marry, my father will cut me off! Where am I gonna get money?”
“Try getting a job like the rest of us!”
“Doing what? You know the only things I’m good at are working out and planning vacations.”
I think of all the time we spent together at the gym and researching trips we’d never end up taking, and get depressed all over again.
Sometimes what passes for a relationship is nothing more than having someone around to fill your free time.
“You’re good at mixing cocktails and chatting up strangers, too. You could get a job on a cruise ship.”
“Ha.”
“I have a solution, but you’re not going to like it.”
He says cautiously, “What is it?”
“Marry a dude.”
He scoffs. “Please.”
“I’m serious. Ask your attorney what that trust actually says. Get a copy of it and read it. I’ll bet your father didn’t put anything in there that stipulates you have to marry a woman. The thought never would have even occurred to Mr. Family Values.”
Brad’s quiet for a while, then he starts munching again, furiously fast.
“Yeah, marinate on it. And while you’re marinating, go back to the States.”
“Before you hang up, I have one last thing to say.”
“What is it?”
He takes a deep breath. “Do you think your stepbrother is into guys?”
This idiot. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. “It’s a miracle you’ve made it this far in life without being murdered. You’re the most clueless person I’ve ever met.”
I hang up before he can ask me for Matteo’s phone number.