Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
I consider ignoring the bell. I’m not expecting anyone, and I have a pretty good feeling who might be at the door. But part of my regret about the scene with Fiero and Matteo is the fact that I ran away when I should have stayed to talk things out.
Rather than taking time to towel off when I step out of the bath, I pull my robe around me and tie the belt as I head to the door. After confirming my suspicion through the peephole, I turn the knob to find Dr. Bestia standing there alone, and even after all the earlier drama, the mere sight of him is enough to make heat rush to my skin. My nipples go stiff under the damp robe, and if his gaze drops just a little, he’ll be able to see how he affects me.
Mortified all over again, I stand there for two seconds that feel like two centuries before I manage to say, “Professor.”
“May I come in?” He’s as polite as ever, as if the whole disastrous thing this afternoon hadn’t happened.
“Of course.” I let him in and close the door behind him. “I’ll just, uh …” I make vague gestures toward my robe and scurry off to my bedroom.
As I’m throwing on the first clean clothes I can find – a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt – I catch sight of myself in the mirror over my dresser. My hair, which I had pulled into a loose bun before getting in the bath, is now hanging in limp tendrils, several of which are stuck to my skin.
My eyes are red and puffy from crying, my mascara has dissolved into dark gray smudges, and my neck and face feature a few large red blotches, whether from the hot water or the emotional distress, I don’t know.
Overall, it’s not a good look.
I hastily run a comb through my hair and wipe at the skin under my eyes, but other than that, there’s not much I can do about the situation without making Dr. Bestia wait too long. Leaving the most formal man I know unattended seems like a much greater hostessing sin than having an unfortunate appearance.
Sure enough, Matteo is still standing where I left him, with his coat still on. He would never presume he was welcome. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have told you to make yourself comfortable. Please, have a seat. Can I take your coat?”
He hesitates, and my stomach tightens with the painful certainty that he’s going to say something crushing and leave because he can’t even stand to be in my presence. But he removes his wool coat and hands it to me, and I’m absurdly relieved.
As I hang it up in my tiny hall closet, I can’t help noticing that instead of his usual dress shirt and blazer, he’s wearing a sweater with his jeans. He looks ridiculously sexy in his professorial outfits, but this less formal attire makes him seem more approachable.
I want to shove him down on my couch and climb all over him. Pick up where I left off with Fiero.
Shocked and confused by my feelings, and hoping they’re not written all over my face, I say, “Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you.”
He takes the sole armchair, so I sit at one end of my loveseat, as far from him as I can get, which isn’t far in my microminiature apartment. Matteo watches me for a few moments, then sighs.
“Dani, I need to apologize.”
I stare at him in astonishment. “For what?”
“For how I reacted when I came upon you this afternoon.”
I’m not sure I can stand to talk about it. My hands are trying to wring each other out like they’re two damp washrags. “Professor Bestia …”
“I think,” he says in his soft, cultured voice, “that you had better call me Matteo.”
Once again, I’m momentarily speechless. The implications of that simple sentence shake my world down to its foundations. “Had I?” I manage at last.
He mutters something in Italian that I don’t catch. Then, in a single fluid move, he gets up from the armchair and sits next to me.
We Both Want You
My heart goes into hyperdrive. He’s too close; every system in my body is going haywire at his nearness. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but vibrate in anxiety and need.
Somehow sensing my turmoil, Matteo takes my hand. Just my hand, that’s all, and he doesn’t say anything, only sits there holding it. It’s a common gesture, but somehow it feels nearly as intimate as my earlier interactions with his brother.
Finally, after I’m not sure how long, my heart stops trying to explode out of my chest and I take a shaky breath.
As if he understands that I can’t take in too much at once, Matteo offers me another sentence, likewise elegant in its simplicity and profound in its implications. “Relationships between professors and students are forbidden.”