I walk into my bedroom to find a disaster zone.
Dragged from the open suitcase in the corner, my clothes are strewn all over the floor, shredded into pieces. In shock, I pick up a T-shirt and inspect the damage. Judging by the size of the rips and tears in the fabric, it was attacked by a rabid animal with small claws and tiny razor-sharp teeth.
“Beans,” I mutter, fuming.
Evidently Matteo isn’t the only member of the Moretti family I’m at war with.
I clean up the mess, fantasizing about capturing Beans and shaving her coat to resemble a poodle’s. Cornelia is nowhere to be seen. I’m guessing she doesn’t want to get in trouble for her sister’s bad behavior.
I go to bed without dinner, too exhausted to eat. In the morning, I’ve got bags under my eyes and a headache that feels like someone’s having a go at my skull with a sledgehammer. I shower and dress, grab an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table, and leave before the sun’s up.
I work until eleven, then call a cab to take me to my appointment at the clinic. I’m in and out in twenty minutes, after having blood and urine drawn and examining all my life choices that led me to this moment. Back at the shop, I order lunch in for the ladies, but I’m too stressed over the thought of the test to eat.
I won’t have the results for two days. So, depending on how things turn out, Brad may or may not have forty-eight hours left to live.
I unblock his number and text him that, so he can suffer along with me.
Within sixty seconds, my phone rings.
“You’re gonna be totally fine,” Brad says when I pick up. “Trust me. It’s all good.”
“Trust you? Really?”
After a pause, he sighs. “Yeah, that was an unfortunate choice of words.”
“Speaking of unfortunate choices, you might want to dial back the swooneration if you ever see Matteo again.”
“Why, is he homophobic?”
I grimace. “Homophobia is such an inaccurate word. It’s not a phobia. No one’s afraid. They’re just an asshole.”
Brad laughs. “I think Samuel L. Jackson might’ve said that.”
“Probably. He’s very wise.”
“Back to the swooneration.”
“Well, from the looks of things, it makes him want to kick your ass.”
After a longer pause than before, he says, “Two things.”
“Shoot.”
“One: You didn’t tell him I was gay, did you?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“You haven’t even come out to your parents. It’s not my place to be spilling your private business all over the world.”
Brad makes a small sound of shock, exhaling quietly. “I can’t believe you’d have my back like that, after what I did.”
“I know. I’m amazing. You don’t deserve me. But remember my silence doesn’t apply to any female you might want to trick into marrying you by pretending you’re straight. Where you like to stick your dick is your business until you try to ruin another poor girl’s life, then all bets are off. What’s number two?”
“How serious are you about him?”
That shocks me into silence. Since when did Brad get so observant? When it becomes obvious I’m not going to say anything, Brad fills in the gap.
“We were together for three years, Kimber. I know you think I’m clueless, but even I can see that you never looked at me the way you look at him.”
Remembering the way Brad looked at me when I was walking down the aisle toward him, I suffer a pang of heartache. “Maybe someday we’ll look back on this and laugh. Maybe someday, after a few years have passed and I’ve grown scar tissue over all the holes you tore in my heart, we can be friends again. But right now I have to be honest and say it’s none of your damn business.”
“It is, though, because I care about you.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” I mutter.
“I looked him up, you know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“On the internet. I researched him.”
“Whatever you’re about to tell me, I don’t want to know.”
He snorts like he thinks I’m funny. “Liar.”
Chewing my lip, I sit up straighter in my chair and brace myself for the worst. “He’s a womanizer, right?”
“More like a monk. He hasn’t been photographed with anyone for years. According to the gossip sites, he’s obsessed with work.”
I say darkly, “Or he’s just really good at keeping secrets.”
“Not everyone has skeletons in their closets.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me about closets.”
Brad laughs, sounding delighted. “Right. Oops. It’s kinda funny, though, right?”
“Sure, like an inoperable brain tumor is funny. I’m hanging up on you now.”
“Before you go, tell me when I’m doing this modeling thing for you.”
I’m instantly suspicious of his motives. “Why?”
“My mom wants to know if I’ll send her some pictures.”
My eyes bulge out of my head. “You told your mother about it?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, my parents know I followed you to Italy to try to get you back.”
Of course they do. Brad’s parents always have to know his whereabouts. I used to think it was sweet they kept such close tabs on him, but now I know better. It was all about damage control.
And now I’m mad all over again.
“Tell your mother there will be tons of pictures. She won’t miss a thing.” I wish I could have a picture of her face when she sees her son in a couture gown. It still hasn’t occurred to Brad to ask me what he’ll be wearing, despite the fact that all I’ve ever made is ladies’ wear. He probably thinks I’m going into men’s fashion just for him.
“Awesome. Thanks, ba—uh, Kimber. And thanks for being so cool about everything. It really means a lot.”
Don’t thank me yet, idiot.
I hang up without saying goodbye. Then I block his number again because I have a feeling if I don’t, I’ll have thumbs-up and best friend emojis arriving via text at all hours of the day and night.
I should’ve let Matteo murder him and bury him in the backyard. Things would be so much simpler if all I had to deal with was a guilty conscience.
Assuming I’d have a guilty conscience over Brad’s demise, which is far from a given.
When the taxi drops me off at seven o’clock, Matteo’s black sports car is already in the driveway.
“Great,” I say under my breath. “Why don’t you just move in? We’ll all be one big happy, backstabbing family.”
I slam the taxi door with more force than necessary, then stomp into the house, trailing steam from my ears. This whole situation feels as if it’s spiraling out of control, like I’m in a bad soap opera. Next I’ll find out I have an evil twin I never knew who wants to lay claim to Il Sogno and my father’s business.
At this point, I’d be tempted to say Have at it! and wash my hands of the whole mess.
When I walk into the dining room, Matteo and the marchesa are sitting next to each other, deep in conversation, their heads bent together and their voices low and urgent, as if they’re plotting a government coup. They break apart when they see me. Matteo leans back in his chair, a sly gleam in his eyes, and his mother begins feeding morsels of food from her plate to Beans, who’s sitting in her booster chair glaring at me with the burning heat of a thousand suns.
I prop a hand on my hip and glare back, including the other two overbred creatures at the table. “Don’t let me interrupt whatever pernicious scheme you’re hatching.”
Matteo grins. “Pernicious? Have you been reading the dictionary?”
I smile back, but it could peel the paint from the walls. “Yes. There are so many interesting words that start with the letter P. Pushy. Peacock. Pecker. Pompous. I could go on.”
With laughter in his eyes, Matteo retorts, “Pact. Pattern. Paper.”
Leave it to him to work our damn agreement into the conversation. When I glance meaningfully at the knife beside his plate, he chuckles. “Bad day, stepsister dearest? You seem tense.”
He’s teasing me, the jerk. Why is he in such high spirits? “Ex-stepsister.”
He says airily, “Yes, that’s right. I know there’s been some confusion over the fine print.”
When the ghost of a smile lifts the marchesa’s mouth, I consider replacing all her shampoo with hair remover. Without another word to either of them, I walk out and head straight to my bedroom. Cornelia’s napping in the middle of my bed on her back with her legs stretched out, looking like she’s been shot.
“Dog!”
She jerks, rolls over, and sits up. When she spots me, she barks and starts to wriggle in excitement like a puppy, pawing the bedcovers.
I point at the bed I made her from blankets in the corner. She stops wriggling, puts her ears down, looks at the blankets, then back at me. Then she flops onto her belly and sets her giant head on her paws, giving me big moon eyes, trying her best to look utterly pathetic.
“Cornelia,” says Matteo from behind me. “Go.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice. She slinks off the bed with her tail between her legs and curls up into a big black ball on the blankets, hiding her eyes under a paw.
“It’s not eight o’clock yet.” I toss my handbag onto the dresser and turn around to look at him. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, smiling like he’s on vacation.
Ignoring my comment, he says, “I love you in that dress. You look like a movie star.” His eyes take a stroll around my figure, lingering on my breasts and legs before wandering back up to my face. He murmurs, “The color matches your eyes.”
Trying valiantly to ignore the words I love you hanging in the air like a lit stick of dynamite, I run my hands nervously down the cinched waist of the dress. “It’s one of my father’s. A certain tiny satanic ball of fur shredded most of my clothes. I think the taxi driver on my way into work thought I was homeless.”
“I should’ve warned you about Beans. She has an oral fixation.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say sourly. “Go back to your dinner.”
“Did you eat yet?”
At the exact same time I say “Yes,” my stomach lets out a loud, alarming groan that sounds like I’m hosting an alien life-form in my bowels.
Matteo smirks, shaking his head. “I’ll be back.”
He turns and leaves. I’m relieved because I think I’m getting a while to get myself together before he returns demanding kisses, but he’s back in five minutes, holding a plate piled with food.
Cornelia lifts her head, eagerly sniffing the air. My stomach emits another monstrous grumble.
“Osso buco alla Milanese,” says Matteo. “My mother’s specialty.”
“Your mother cooks?”
He chuckles at my disbelieving tone. “She’s an incredible cook. Lorenzo usually does the honors, but on Fridays we always have a family meal she makes herself.”
He holds the plate out to me. It’s filled with veal shanks falling off the bone, polenta, and some small balls smothered in red sauce. I assume they’re meatballs, until Matteo corrects me.
“Those are arancini. Rice balls stuffed with cheese and ragu, coated with breadcrumbs and fried. They’re delicious.”
They definitely smell delicious. The scent wafting up from the plate is making my mouth water. I take the plate from his hands and accept the fork he holds out. I take a tentative bite of the veal, not completely convinced it isn’t poisoned, but groan in pleasure when the taste explodes on my tongue.
Matteo smiles. “Good?”
I swallow that mouthful, then stuff another in. “Oh my God. So fucking good.”
I realize how sexual that sounded when his eyes darken. Looking at my mouth, he says softly, “So fucking good.”
It sends a thrill straight through me, like I’ve stuck my finger into an electrical socket. We stare at each other for a beat, until I remember to swallow. When the plate trembles in my hand, Matteo takes it from me. He removes the fork from my other hand, spears a bit of meat from the plate, and holds it up to my mouth.
“I don’t need you to feed me.”
“You have no idea what you need. Open your mouth.”
Okay, so my panties just exploded. So what? That doesn’t mean he’s in charge here.
“You’re used to getting your way, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Now open your mouth.” He nudges my lips with the tines of the fork.
I want to kick him in the shin, but I’m too hungry to put up a fight. So I simply open my mouth and let him slide the fork between my lips.
Like a hawk, he watches me. When my tongue darts out to lick some sauce from my lower lip, his eyes flare. My breath catches, and though I want badly to look away, I can’t.
I’m a deer caught in headlights. I’m a fox caught in a snare.
Next I get a mouthful of creamy polenta. He feeds it to me slowly, easing the fork into my mouth, focused on me with extraordinary attention. I feel my pulse everywhere in my body, even my fingertips.
When I swallow, he wipes the corner of my mouth with his thumb. Then he sucks on it, savoring it as if he can taste me, as if he’s wishing his thumb were some intimate part of my body.
“So fucking good,” he whispers, eyes blazing, and fills the fork again.
At this rate I’ll orgasm before we even get to the fried balls. “Matteo—”
“Hush.” He nudges my lips with the fork.
I close my eyes and let him feed me, swallowing everything he lifts to my lips as my heartbeat goes haywire and my skin heats. After three bites, I’m so turned on I can barely swallow.
He touches the throbbing pulse in the side of my neck, then leans in and kisses it.
My eyes fly open. I suck in a startled breath. He sets the plate on the dresser next to my hip with a clatter, then sinks his hands into my hair, angling his head to kiss me.
“The door’s open!”
He growls, “Fuck the door,” and crushes his mouth to mine.