Matteo
It was nearly four o’clock in the morning. Give me your address.
Those three dots bounce on the screen for longer than I would expect for her to type in her address. For a second I’m worried she might actually not send it, right before it finally pops up.
Sunny
Text me when you’re close, I’ll meet you downstairs.
Matteo
See you soon.
Shaking my head to myself, a soft laugh escapes me as I open up the web browser on my phone to find the perfect restaurant to order take-out from.
At this point, she could ask me to fly to a different country to fetch her food and I’d probably hop on a plane without thinking twice.
All for the sake of our deal, of course.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JADE
“In a different life, we would have been more than this. We would have created instead of destroyed.” - Clara Foss, Painted Inferno
Shit, shit, shit.
I don’t know why I agreed to Matteo coming over. My entire apartment looks like a tornado ripped through it.
My trash isn’t overflowing, but the sink is full of dishes. I quickly walk over, grabbing the different plates and dishes and arrange them all in the dishwasher. Being on a deadline has a way of making me hunker down in my apartment like a hobbit. The only thing I’ve been keeping up on is showering—thank God—and making sure my clothes are washed.
I do a quick walkthrough, straightening everything up, yet leaving all my work materials strewn across the dining room table. Since I’ve been fully immersed in the book I’m writing, I moved all my materials to the dining room table to free up the island counter in the kitchen.
It’s a disaster, but it’s an organized one. I know exactly where everything I need is. It’s fine, Matteo will get over it. Or maybe he won’t even notice.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror along the wall near the dining room table.
Never mind the disaster on the table. I’m the real disaster here.
My footsteps are rushed as I head down the hallway, slipping into my bedroom to change into something a bit more acceptable. I switch out my wrinkled sweatsuit for a pair of leggings and a sweater.
I walk into the bathroom, brushing my hair and pulling it back into a messy bun on top of my head. I opt for a quick layer of light makeup, just to cover the dark circles under my eyes and to bring a bit of color back into my cheeks.
I’m not on a tight deadline, so there’s really no excuse for my appearance other than not wanting to lose the momentum I have.
The inspiration lately has been like an overflowing well. It’s all thanks to Matteo really. He’s providing the muse; I’m just chasing after it.
The flirty banter between us keeps my mind stimulated. The conversation never feels flat or dry. Every time my phone goes off and I see his name, my heart does this stupid little stumble.
I’m supposed to see my cardiologist next week. Perhaps it’s an electrical issue and not related to Matteo Ford at all.
I finish wiping down the counters after sweeping the floors. I drag a match along the side of the box, watching the flame come to life before I hold it to the wick of my candle.
And then my phone vibrates. Crap, how did thirty minutes go by so fast?
Matteo
Honey, I’m home.
