Seduced by Stratton (The English Brothers Book 4) (15 page)

Daisy beamed and pressed forward into the crowd to find her cousin, Emily, who always reserved them a table.

And just like that, Val resolved to keep the sad story of Stratton’s rejection to herself—to leave it in the past where it belonged. She was moving forward with her life. In fact? She was going to turn over a new leaf tomorrow. She was going to embrace her curves and her brain and her wild Italian hair. And maybe Joey Conchetta wouldn’t be “the one,” but suddenly she felt sure that there was someone terrific out there for her. She didn’t know how she knew, but as her mother would say, she could feel it in her bones. Valeria Campanile wasn’t going to settle for someone like Danny, and she wasn’t going to be Stratton’s consolation prize either. Her lips tilted up as she remembered her words to Stratton several months ago in this very same bar:
I’m a catch.

She gave Emily a wide grin as she sat down across the table from her roommate and poured herself a tall glass of icy beer.

Hell, yes, I’m a catch
, she thought with more confidence, throwing back her shoulders as Emily winked at her.

“Spill it, Val. What’s got you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”

Emily and Daisy leaned forward with wide, expectant eyes as Val beamed back at them.

“I’ve got a date tomorrow night,” she said.

Emily grinned, and Daisy put up her palm for a high-five.

“Anyone we know?”

For just a second, Stratton’s face passed through her mind, but she forced thoughts of him away and held on to her smile. “Nope. He’s the cousin of my aunt’s fix-it man.”

“Cute?”

Val hadn’t seen Joey Conchetta in years, but from what she recalled . . .

“Yeah, he is.”

“Nice? Rich?”

“Nice? Yeah, from what I remember. Rich? He’s an accountant, so I guess he does okay. But you know what, girls? I don’t need a rich boy. I just want someone who likes me for me.”

“I love that,” said Emily, lifting her pint glass. “To us, and to the boys who like us for who we are!”

Their glasses clinked together merrily, and Val grinned at her friends, ignoring her Stratton English-saturated heart, and vowing to keep moving forward.

Two weeks later, Stratton stood in the office kitchenette holding a cup of coffee when Fitz came up behind him.

“Do you know you’ve been stirring that coffee for over ten minutes?”

“What?”

“Yeah,” said Fitz, stepping around his brother to make a cup for himself. “I passed you standing here on my way to Barrett’s office ten minutes ago.”

“What are you doing, timing me?”

Fitz looked up quickly, surprised by Stratton’s ornery tone. “No. I just noticed.”

“Don’t you have more important things to do than keeping track of my coffee breaks?”

Without waiting for an answer, Stratton turned on his heel and exited the kitchen, heading back down the hall. He raised the mug to his lips and grimaced—the coffee was cool, damn it.

“No. You know what? That’s not going to fly with me,” said Fitz from behind him, following Stratton into his office and closing the door behind them. “Let’s have it. What’s up with you?”

Stratton headed for his desk, sitting down in the high-backed brown leather chair and looking at his brother. “What? You don’t need to watchdog my coffee breaks, Fitz.”

Fitz set his mug on Stratton’s desk before taking a seat in the guest chair across from him. “It’s so strange, because my brother Stratton has an almost nonexistent amount of bullshit in his personality. And now suddenly his bullshit is off the charts. So, color me confused, but . . .”

“But?”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“Going on?”

“Come on, Strat. You’re distracted. You’re pissed off. You’re acting weird . . . er than usual. Last time one of my brothers acted like this much of a douche, it was Barrett, and Emily was making him crazy.”

“You conveniently forget what a bed of roses
you
were the night you beat up Daisy’s fake fiancé.”

Fitz chuckled lightly. “Yeah. True enough. I was.”

“How’s she doing?” asked Stratton.

“Gorgeous. She’s almost seventeen weeks. Can you believe it? Three more weeks and we find out the sex.”

Playing with a paper clip on his desk, and as casually as possible, Stratton asked, “Did you and Barrett go to Mulligan’s last night?”

“Yep. Of course. We were up to eighty minutes before we thought this asshole was hitting on them, and left the bar to get rid of him.” Fitz chuckled. “Turned out it was just Valeria’s new boyfriend.”

Stratton’s fingers stilled as his blood went cold. His eyes cut to Fitz with a death glare, his nostrils flaring and heart racing.

“What did you say?”

“What the hell, Strat?”

Stratton held up a finger and shook his head, eyes glued to Fitz’s. “Val has a boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” said Fitz, speaking in a bewildered voice. “Joe. Uh, Joe Conchetta? Yeah, I think that’s his name. He’s an accountant. Over at
Mercer & May
. Seemed like a decent guy. What’s—um, what’s
up
with you, man? You’re freaking me out.”

Halfway through Fitz’s description of Joe-fucking-Conchetta, Stratton had stood and put his back to his brother, facing the windows that looked over the Schuylkill River with his hands on his hips. His fingers dug painfully into his flesh through his shirt as he clenched his jaw.

Fitz walked to the windows to stand beside him. “You gotta talk to me, Strat. Do you have a—a thing for her? For Valeria?”

“Leave it alone, Fitz,” he growled softly.

Fitz shook his head. “I can’t.”

Stratton crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to look at his older brother, unwilling to let Fitz see the pain in his eyes. “How’d she seem? Happy?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess. She was laughing and talking.”

“And they left together?”

“Um, well, actually, Daisy and I left first. Barrett and Em were still hanging out with Val and Joe when we left.”

Val and Joe.

Stratton winced, the growing lump in his throat harder and harder to swallow. “Did they, uh, kiss or anything?”

“Um . . .” Fitz paused, taking a deep breath. “I don’t remember. But, they weren’t all over each other or anything.”

A boyfriend. She had a new boyfriend.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

For over two weeks, as he waited for Amy to return from Japan, he’d fought against his feelings for Val. He had recounted, in painstaking detail, every word exchanged, every look, every nuance of tone, every movement, however spare. Lying awake at night he dissected their conversations, reviewing her words until he had them memorized, until he missed her so much, it hurt, and he’d hit the gym at two in the morning before falling into bed, exhausted.

And then the dreams would come. Even worse than his conscious memories were the dreams that mercilessly taunted him nightly. By now, he’d kissed Val a million times in his subconscious, her pink mittens flat against his chest as he breathed in her scent and tasted her mouth and stupidly let her walk away, again and again.

He wanted her fiercely . . . and yet he hadn’t called her, hadn’t texted her a love letter, hadn’t show up at
Danse Allégre
with three dozen roses. Why?

Because he needed to see Amy first.

Not because he still imagined himself in love with her. He was almost positive that he wasn’t. He needed to see Amy for two reasons.

One, he needed to be sure, beyond any possible doubt, that his romantic feelings for her had vanished. He couldn’t make a serious move on Val only to see Amy again and find himself back in the same triangle that had caused him to push Val away. Even if she forgave him once, she’d never forgive him twice.

Two, Amy was his friend. She deserved to know about the black soul of the man she was dating, and Stratton needed closure from his long-time infatuation by telling her of his concerns.

His sense of structure and order demanded that he needed to wrap up the part of his life that had belonged to Amy. Once he was sure he was immune to her, and had cleared his conscience by telling her who Étienne really was, he planned to track down Val. Immediately.

To his horror and shame, it hadn’t ever occurred to him that she wouldn’t be available, that she would have moved on, that she would have found someone else so quickly. The pain he felt at hearing the words “new boyfriend” was so sharp and unexpected he could barely catch his breath.

“Stratton?”

“Always about a girl,” said Stratton, turning to Fitz as he remembered Danny’s words on the staircase at
Danse Allégre
, “when a man looks like me.”

Fitz furrowed his brows. “Huh?”

“Sit down. I’ll tell you the story of how I got friend-zoned by Amy—”

“Amy? Who’s Amy?”

“—and ended up falling for Val.”

***

“Great lecture, Miss Campanile.”

“Thanks, Miss Campanile.”

“
Should I draw you the picture of my heart . . .
” one young student passionately recited, placing his palm over his heart and grinning at Val as he exited the lecture hall with his friends.

She chuckled lightly as she watched them go. Today she’d read Abigail Adams’s Christmas missive to her husband, John, wherein she described her heart, writing, “
. . . should I draw you the picture of my Heart, it would be what I hope you still would Love; tho it contained nothing new; the early possession you obtained there; and the absolute power you have ever maintained over it; leaves not the smallest space unoccupied
.” It was one of her favorite letters, the lyric language so easy to read—more like poetry, almost, than prose.

She pulled on her parka and gathered her books before turning toward the door to leave. Her eyes widened in surprise and her lips tilted up into a pleased smile to find Joe standing against the doorway.

He grinned, his pink lips light against his olive, perpetually-tanned skin. “Thought I’d pick you up. Late class. Too many admirers.”

“Oh, yeah. A valid concern. Just what I need. A freshman boyfriend.”

“Hey, I’d bring an apple to every class if I was lucky enough to be taught by you.”

He pushed away from the door frame, his tall, lanky body graceful as he ambled toward her wearing a gray suit with a red and blue striped tie. Though he looked formal, he exuded a casual ease. Joe never strode or trudged, he ambled or strolled. There was something innately laidback about him that Val couldn’t decide if she liked or not.

“Anyway, I was sort of thinking you were taken,” he said meaningfully, stopping before her and reaching for her books. She opened her messenger bag, and he placed them inside, then zipped the bag and swung it onto his shoulder.

She cocked her head to the side, giving him a gentle look of warning. “Joe . . .”

“I know, I know. We’re taking it slow.” He held out his hand, beckoning her with his fingers, the movement languid and deliberate. “
Ma sogno di andare veloce, bella Valeria
.”

But I dream of going fast, beautiful Valeria.

“
Comportati bene
,” she chided with a grin, taking his hand.

Behave yourself.

She flicked off the lights as she walked by the switch, then pulled the classroom door shut behind them.

“How about dinner?” he asked. “Antonio’s? A big bowl of pasta for two with homemade gravy?”

“Sure,” she answered, matching her usually quick pace to his relaxed stride.

He didn’t say anything else as they walked through the dim corridors of the history building toward the exit.

Tonight was the two-week anniversary of her first date with Joe. He was gentlemanly, intelligent and kind, asking her questions about her studies and listening to her answers politely, if without enthusiasm. He was good-looking too—tall and fit with smooth olive skin, dark eyes and jet-black hair. He’d gone to Penn State, where he’d majored in accounting, and he had a decent job at a bank downtown, working in payroll. In her old neighborhood, Joe Conchetta was a mega-catch, and her mother tittered with glee lately, talking—just loud enough for Val to overhear—about the three or four beautiful
bimbi
grandchildren that she and Joe would be giving her soon.

Therein lay the first of two problems.

She couldn’t escape the feeling that, while Joe approved of her doctorate work and appreciated her smarts, what he really wanted was a steady girlfriend who’d become his wife in short order and be happy living twenty minutes outside the city in a nice four-bedroom house, having and raising those three or four
bambini
. It’s nothing that he’d said directly, but she felt it when she was with him. He was like a slow-moving walkway conveying her to a life where she moved away from the city, from her studies, from teaching, from publishing, from everything she’d worked so hard to achieve. She didn’t know how she knew this was true, but she did, and it bothered her.