He didn’t move. Just stayed leaning against the opposite wall like he owned the damn place, arms crossed, ankle kicked over the other. A curl from his espresso-colored hair falling down the middle of his forehead. I wanted to push it aside.
Infuriating.
His eyes trailed over me with slow deliberation, and I swore I felt it, like heat crawling up the hem of my dress. I forced my chin higher. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of stopping to give him the attention he wants.
“You don’t run away from people when it meant nothing,Princess,” he said, voice low and rough with whatever game he’s decided we’re playing.
My spine stiffened.
God, that nickname. The way he said it—all teasing and intimate, like it belonged to just the two of us. Like he knew exactly which nerve to hit.
But my feet…didn’t move.
I hated that I liked the way his voice sounded when we were alone. Darker. Unpolished. It made something unsteady twist inside me.
“I didn’t run,” I said, keeping my tone even, bored. Safe. I didn’t turn around. Couldn’t.
“Then what do you call this week?”
He was closer. I heard the subtle shift of his body, the soft scrape of his shoe against the floor. My breath hitched before I caught it.
“I was busy,” I snapped, sharper than intended. I could feel him watching me. The air between us practically vibrated.
Then, softly—dangerously close, he said, “You keep playing cold, and I might believe it…if your eyes didn’t keep following me.”
My blood pulsed so hard I felt it behind my knees. I whirled to face him, heat and irritation bubbling up in tandem.
“Not everything’s about you,” I bit out.
But he just smiled.
Slow. Dangerous.
Like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
“You wore red.”
My stomach flipped, traitorous. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to drag him back into that dark hallway from last weekend and kiss him until I forgot why I hated him. I hated that he noticed things like that. I hated that Iwantedhim to.
“I always wear team colors,” I said coolly, refusing to let my voice waver.
I moved to brush past him, but instead of simply letting me—Matteo stepped aside with theatrical grace, a mock bow that brought his mouth just a little too close to my ear.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’tlookat him.
I just walked.
Because the last thing he got—thevery last thing—was the last word.
The air outside the pâtisserie smelled like butter and powdered sugar. Gianna’s hand was wrapped around mine as she dragged me toward the next window display—a tiny boutique with glittery tutus and impractical toddler sunglasses.
“Look, the pink one!” She pointed at a frilly monstrosity of a dress.
“You already have three of those.” Lucia laughed.
“I think she’s eyeing number four,” I said, glancing down at Gia. “Very fashion-forward of you.”
Lucia grinned as we fell into step again, strolling the cobbled alleyway. It was a beautiful day, and the serene views of a small-town shopping day was just what I needed.
