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By the time she reached the kitchen she realized she was crazy. The washer wasn’t plumbed in yet. She couldn’t do the laundry and wash his smell out the bedclothes. She sighed. She didn’t want to leave them in the kitchen where they could get even dirtier as the kitchen refit continued, so she turned back to head to the stairs.
Matteo was striding toward her, the album under his arm. He almost tripped when he saw her—it was clear he’d been planning on heading straight out of the door.
She swallowed again and felt a little surge of anger. The rattling kind that meant she really needed her morning dose of caffeine. That was it. The first thing she was doing today was going out to buy a coffeepot somewhere. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
She gave him her best smile. “Let me know if there’s anything specific you want me to do in the house.”
Bland. Idiotic. It was the best she could do. She felt like the high school girl who the Prom King had kissed by mistake. Not exactly the best feeling in the world.
He licked his lips as that floppy brown hair of his fell over his eyes. If she had a razor right now, she would shave it clean off.
He glanced around. What was he looking at? He was surrounded by cream-colored walls. “You seem to have everything under control here. Maybe next week we should talk about plans for Rome?”
Her tongue glued itself to the top of her mouth. Rome. No. No. No.
That was a plane ride away. Probably more than one.
It was clear that he took her silence as agreement. He walked past. “Drop me an email when the house is ready and I’ll contact the realtor.”
She pressed her lips together as the surge of anger flooded her veins. Would it be wrong to push her employer straight out of the front door? She let her feet stay rooted to the spot, with her arms tightly clutching the bedclothes until she heard the door close behind him.
Nothing. No, Thanks for last night. No, That was nice. No, Will I call you? And definitely no, I’m sorry.
It was like being dismissed. Being ignored.
She stamped up the curving stairs, every step a little more forceful. Was this what Matteo did with women? Kiss them mercilessly, then just walk away?
Tears burned in her eyes. She was overreacting. She knew she was. But she couldn’t fight the wave of hurt that burned through her.
He wasn’t to know that it was her first kiss since her fiancé had died. He wasn’t to know that even though she’d tried to get back out in the dating game, her heart just hadn’t been in it.
He wasn’t to know that last night, for the first time in three years, she’d actually felt something again. A spark. A glimmer of hope.
It was as if the cloud that had settled on her shoulders had finally started to lift. It was as if a stream of sunlight was starting to poke through.
Before, she’d always felt guilty. Guilty she was on a date. Guilty she was out again. It had never felt quite right. She had never felt quite ready.
So why did now have to be the time for her to feel ready? Why did the first guy who sent tingles down her spine and kissed her as she’d never been kissed before have to be her boss?
Matteo had lit a flame that had been tempered for so long.
Last night had felt so right. Why was he acting as if it were so wrong?
Maybe she was crazy—a whole world of crazy. How could she possibly even consider putting her heart out there again? It had been broken in the worst kind of way. There was no way she could consider letting herself be hurt like that again.
She dumped the bedclothes in the corner of one of the rooms. She didn’t care how messy they were. They could stay like that until the washer was finally plumbed in.
She pressed her lips together and put her hands on her hips. Right now she was so mad it was easy to push the other stuff out of her head. The Rome stuff. She would find an excuse. A reason not to be able to go.
He would still pay her for her work here. That would surely be enough to put a dent in the bill for her mother’s medical care. The very last thing she wanted to do was spend any more time in an enclosed space with Matteo Bianchi—the guy who could kiss her, then treat her as if she’d never existed.
She looked around and lifted her chin. He wanted this house dressed?
Then, boy, he could have it.
* * *
“Mr. Bianchi?” Constance, his new, efficient, but very nervous PA was hovering by the door. She had a habit of shifting from foot to foot. At first he’d thought the stilettos that she favored were either too high, or too uncomfortable. But he’d quickly realized it was just a nervous habit.
He barely looked up. “Yes?”
There was silence. So he did look up—just in time to see her bite her bottom lip.
