Chapter 24
Sydney
Entering the front door, my hands overloaded with plastic grocery bags, I manage to get inside without dropping anything. It’s been another long shift at work. Once I missed lunch, thinking of cooking some Italian dish and listening to my language lesson app was the only thing getting me through the rest of the afternoon.
I’ve had that niggling feeling of being under a microscope all day. Was it the patients who came in with a list of questions a mile long? Or the fact that it continues to feel as if someone’s watching me.
Is it him?
I honestly wouldn’t put it past Matteo to be stalking my every move. The possessive dickhead. But it honestly didn’t feel like him. Heck, even being home isn’t relaxing anymore. It’s probably Josef from next door. Knowing that any second he could come traipsing through the backyard, banging on my door.
I like your pussy. I shiver at the memory. Don’t go back there, Syd.
Reaching into the grocery bags, I begin unpacking my items. I’d found an Italian recipe on Pinterest I’m hoping to create. Figured I could continue my Italian learning app as it simmers. The margherita pasta dish looked simple enough and should be ready in about thirty minutes.
I chop the onions, tomatoes, and herbs before grating the parmesan and mozzarella cheese. As I sauté the vegetables in crushed garlic, my stomach begins to growl. Thank goodness this dish cooks quickly. All of a sudden, I’m ravenous. After gradually whisking the chicken broth and milk, I turn the heat down and let simmer according to the directions while I get the pasta into boiling water.
Turning to the refrigerator, I pull out a bottle of Chianti I’d picked up for just this occasion. Yet as I place it on the counter and look for my wine opener, it dawns on me that the room is darker than it should be for this hour of the night.
Am I losing it?
When I’d left home this morning, I’d been proud of my early morning accomplishments. I’d gotten up earlier than my norm to walk, meditate, read some affirmations, and write in my gratitude journal. The last thing I’d done before heading off to work was open my drapes to let the light in.
The drapes in the front window and across the sliding glass doors are pulled completely shut. As if on autopilot, I move to the master bedroom. Closed. But there’s no way.
I drop down on the edge of my bed, trying to clear the cobwebs enough to determine if I’ve actually gotten my days mixed up. Had that all happened yesterday morning and I’m getting my days confused?
I push to stand from the bed to check on dinner, when my eyes land on a crinkly object on the floor. Walking closer, I lean down to the hem of the drapes and grasp the small flimsy plastic. I recognize this. It’s a candy wrapper. Just like the fireball candies Matteo had placed on my nightstand that night.
Suddenly, steam starts to spout from my ears. I immediately picture my ex-husband, husband, gah… moving from room to room, aggressively closing the drapes. He did this.
Matteo’s been here.
I return to the kitchen, trying to stay focused on completing this meal before it burns. There’s no way I’m letting my anger ruin this.
As I complete the dish, I plate it, lift it to my nose, and take a proud inhale. This looks and smells delicious. I carry it over to the couch with my wineglass and place them on the coffee table before retrieving my phone. Yet, rather than opening the language learning app, I decide to use the Italian translator app instead.
Entering in the English terms, I wait to see and hear the pronunciation of the Italian equivalent.
Kill. “Uccidere. Uccidere.” I sound out the words.
Strangle. “Strangolare.” Hmm, that’s an easy one.
Murder Matteo. “Assassinio Matteo.”
See, this Italian isn’t so hard after all.
Matteo
Knocking on the door, I step back and try to calm my nerves. I think dealing with the criminal underbelly of the mafia may be easier than handling her right now.
Watching her attempting to cook what appeared to be an Italian feast for one last night had me jealous of my own home. I would’ve given anything to be there with her. Enjoying her triumph over cooking something from my homeland. I need to go for it. Do what she asked. It’s not safe. But I have to put her needs first for once.
Give her the whole ass kissing package. Even if it’s not the fun kind.
The door swings open, and I lose my breath. Sydney’s wearing a deep green wrap dress that falls to mid-calf. It hugs her curves in all the right places, the V neck accentuating her beautiful cleavage. Wait. A scowl crosses my face.
Did she wear this to work?
We’re going to need to talk about appropriate work attire. Whether she has a lab coat on or not, she doesn’t need to be tempting every man who walks into her office with—
I must take too long to speak, as she starts to close the door in my face. Jutting my hand out to stop it, I quickly thrust the roses I’m holding in her direction. “Here. They’re for you.”
The little brat rolls her eyes at me. “I should be calling the police.”
“For what?” I scoff.
“Breaking and entering.”
I raise a brow in question. “It’s my house.”
“You packed your shit and left!” she yells, hands balled on her voluptuous hips.
“Still our house.”
She lets out a frustrated exhale. “You filed for divorce.” She enunciates each word slowly and succinctly, as if speaking to a child.
“I think I’ve already proven that’s not true.”
“Gah!” she yells, throwing her arms up in the air in indignation. “Then why are you here, exactly?”
“I’m trying to court you.” I wrinkle my brow in confusion. Isn’t it obvious? “Which is insane.” I snort.
She tilts her head, her eyelids narrowing to mere slits. I’m waiting for her to start tapping her toe at me like my old nanny used to. “And why exactly would courting me be insane?”
“I thought we’d covered this. Because. We. Are. Already. Married.” There. Two can play this game.
She again starts to slam the door in my face, but I manage to catch it with my shoe. The little brat only pushes harder. Ouch . “Wait, wait. I’m trying to give you the ass kissing package you requested.”
With this, I manage to catch the tiniest glimmer in her eyes. Gotcha. “You look beautiful, principessa.” I crook my arm, hoping she’ll have mercy on me. “I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“Now? What happened to calling and asking a woman out?”
I shake my head. “Well, considering you’re wearing date night outfits to work.” I run my finger dramatically up and down her body. “Not sure how they’re supposed to be able to concentrate on what ails them if they’re drooling over your body.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Are you serious?”
I reach up to rub the stubble on my jaw. “About dinner or your work attire? Never mind, the answer is yes.”
She rolls her eyes at me, and I instantly picture throwing that curvy ass over my knee. “Not Luigi’s.”
“Fine.” I chuckle. “It’ll hurt his feelings, but that’s on you. Not Luigi’s.”
A full-fledged smile lights up her face now. She disappears inside for a moment, then returns holding her purse. Taking my arm, she comes to my side.
“These are for you.” I once again present the roses to her.
“What, no chocolates?”
“I’ll bring those next time. Now get in the car.”
“So romantic.”
Thirty minutes later, we arrive at Buckhead’s. Let’s hope tonight we can rewrite history, because I’d very much like to replace any thoughts of my first trip here.
As we approach the hostess station, the young man before us tilts his head in confusion. What is wrong with this kid? Does he have some sort of crook in his neck?
“I’m sorry. Didn’t we already seat you?”
“What?” Sydney asks, as perplexed as I am.
The young man rotates away from us, looking over the dining area briefly before returning to us with a look of merriment on his face. “Your doppelg?ngers are here.”
Sydney leans to the left, trying to follow his prior line of sight and immediately breaks into a fit of giggles.
“What?”
“You’re never going to believe this.”
“When it comes to you, nothing will surprise me.”
Sydney steps back, placing her hand over her heart, looking affronted. “Me?”
“What is it?”
A deep belly laugh rumbles from her chest. “My date is here.”
I clear my throat. “I’m standing right here.”
“No, my date from the last time I came to this restaurant.”
What the hell? My body immediately stiffens at the reminder. I follow Sydney’s outstretched arm, where she points in the direction of a couple with similar hair color to ours. He has his back to us, but his companion does freakishly resemble my wife. But how anyone could think I look anything like that cream puff is beyond me. The man looks like he gets mani pedis at the spa. And he’s probably too chicken shit for a tattoo, by the way he bolted on her the last time we were here.
“Right this way,” the host directs as he leads us in the opposite direction of our look-a-likes.
“Hmm. Friend zone, huh?”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind.”
The host starts to pull out Sydney’s chair, so I let out a grumble loud enough he abruptly steps back, allowing me to take care of my wife personally. As I take my seat across from her, I catch her flat unimpressed expression before he hands her a menu.
“Can I get the two of you something to drink? From the bar, perhaps?”
“No. We’ll have still water,” I interject.
Sydney opens her mouth as if to argue, but I hold up my hand. There’s no way I’m letting any alcohol within five feet of me with the way this night is going. “Don’t start.”
“Boy, you’re pulling out all the stops tonight. And they say romance is dead.”
I shake my head, making a tsk sound in her direction. “If you wanted romance, we could’ve stuck to my ass kissing package.”
Dropping her menu, she gives me a glare.
“The one where I could’ve eaten your ass at home.”