Chapter Thirteen
I had to stop thinking about him. Before it got messier and more complicated than it already was, I needed to put some distance between myself and Torre. Mike had called me the day after I helped him at Mangia to tell me he’d found someone to work in the kitchen. I knew he didn’t want me there. Didn’t trust me.
Smart man.
But even with the brush-off, I struggled all week not to take a car to Brooklyn, go to Mangia, and be with Torre. He’d texted me several times, and I put him off with claims of pre-existing engagements. How long would it be until he grew tired of my lame-ass excuses and stopped reaching out?
That’s what you want, isn’t it?The devil smirked.He knew.
I feel bad. Because of that last night.
Why? You fucked him, and that’s all you wanted, right?
Ignoring the devil, I paced the length of my living room, finishing off my second bottle of Peroni. I scrolled through my calendar and saw I’d blown off a scheduled review of an Argentinian steakhouse in Rego Park. Where the fuck was that? I stalked over to my refrigerator and took out bottle number three.
Why are you fighting it? Don’t you want him?
No.
Liar. You do. Look at yourself. You’re a mess. Admit it.
No, I won’t. It was only supposed to be for one night.
And that fucking devil laughed and laughed.
What I needed was someone with a level head.
“Press? What’re you doing now?”
“I’m having tea with the queen. What do you think I’m doing? It’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday. I’m working.”
Damn.Give the guy sex on the regular, and he got all bossy. “I need to talk to you about something. Can I come by the store?”
“About what?”
“See you in an hour.”
In the car ride uptown, I fidgeted and prepared what I planned to tell Presley. Not the whole truth, because he’d pounce on me about love and commitment and all that crap he believed in. I needed it to be cut-and-dried—how to walk away from someone, even if you didn’t want to, because you knew it would be for the best since you were a shit person.
Possibly the longest, most pathetic title in the history of the world.
When I arrived at Presley’s antiques store, I had to wait for him to take care of customers, so I walked around a bit before flinging myself onto a chaise lounge set against the wall. When he’d made the final sale, Press followed the couple to the front door, and when they walked out, he turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED.
“What’d you do that for?”
Without answering me, Press made us espressos and handed me the cup, then sat down. “When was the last time you called me up to talk?”
I swallowed the hot espresso, but it barely made a dent on my frozen insides. “I don’t know. It’s not something I keep track of. I come by here all the time.”
“Yes, you do. To chat about a meal you had or to tease me about Nate. Sometimes to tell me about some guy you were with.” He played with his cup. “But you’ve never come by here to talk to me about something important happening in your life. I have no idea what’s going on inside your head. You’ve never done what you did today: call me up and ask if I have time to talk.”
“Oh God, let’s not be so dramatic.” I crushed the paper cup.
“What’s bothering you, Frisco?”
Do you have the rest of the year?
“I may have bitten off more than I anticipated.”
