The Italian Billionaire's New Year Bride

“Phoebe, did someone hurt you? Is that a bruise?”

She shook her head as she lifted her own hand to her cheek. “Don’t panic. It’s me.” She lowered her gaze, almost embarrassed to answer. “In my excitement to get started this morning I fell out of bed. I hit my face on my bedside cabinet.”

Matteo didn’t speak. He just kept staring. Then he glanced down at her hand. She could see the tension across his shoulders and the tic at the side of his jaw. “Is there someone in your life, Phoebe?”

She jerked and sat back in her seat, her mouth instantly dry. Everything about this felt wrong. He’d more or less just accused her of being too nosey, but now she could feel the intensity of his gaze. She could see both the sympathy and revulsion in his eyes. He’d jumped to a conclusion that was entirely wrong. She didn’t doubt for a second what Matteo Bianchi would do to a man who was abusing his wife.

Tears pooled in her eyes. But for none of the reasons that Matteo was obviously assuming. She opened her mouth to speak but the words stuck in her throat. Why were they so hard to say?

“There...there’s...no one in my life, just me.” She shook her head as the tears threatened to fall. “Can’t blame anyone else for my clumsiness.”

His shoulders fell a little but the crease in his brow remained.

The waitress appeared at that second, gave them a peculiar glance and put their plates on the table. “Anything else?”

Phoebe shook her head quickly. “We’re fine,” replied Matteo.

They sat in silence for a few seconds. Phoebe staring at her potato chowder. The smell that had seemed so delicious earlier, now just seemed to make her stomach do uncomfortable flip-flops.

Matteo lifted his fork and picked at his omelet. After a few seconds he let out a sigh and put his fork back down, sliding his hand over the table and letting it cover hers.

“Is there anything you need to tell me?”

She shook her head as one tear finally slid down her cheek. The lump in her throat had grown to epic proportions. Her other hand was still automatically stirring her soup.

Matteo pressed his lips together for a moment. His hand was warm against hers. Her fingers had never felt quite so cold. Up until a few moments ago she’d felt fine. Now, she just felt so...empty.

Why? Jason had died three years ago. She’d had to tell friends and family about the terrible accident. But she’d simply never found herself in a circumstance like this.

Matteo was only showing concern over something he’d misinterpreted. It should be no big deal. She should just have waved her hand and laughed it off.

But when he’d stared at her with those big green eyes and asked her if there was someone in her life it was the first time in three years she actually felt something.

And that terrified her.

She shook her head and stared down at her soup. She could tell him why she was tearful. She could tell him that her fiancé had died a few years before. Then, he would know that there was no hint of trouble in her life.

But somehow she couldn’t find the words.

She’d tried dating. Once or twice. But her heart just wasn’t in it. Jason had held every part of her heart. She’d loved him. Totally. He’d been her soul mate. And when he’d died? She’d tried so hard to soldier on.

But the hurt was inexplicable. Something she could never, ever forget. And it had made her learn to build walls, put up barriers, to keep herself safe. It was the only way. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—ever allow herself to feel like that again.

Which was why being around Matteo and feeling something again—no matter how small and unexplained—was unsettling her beyond words.

But then he did something unexpected. His hand was already sitting over hers. He gave it a squeeze and gestured down to their plates. “I think maybe our waitress was right. I think we should move straight on to desserts. Why waste time when we both know we want an explosion of sweetness?” He stood up and took her hand in his, pulling her up toward him and giving the waitress a wave. Phoebe’s legs were shaking. What on earth was wrong with her?

But Matteo did his best to put her at ease by throwing a relaxed arm behind her waist and moving her a little closer to the glass counter. The waitress gestured toward the cakes. “What’ll it be?”

Matteo nudged Phoebe. “What’s your favorite?”

There was a mountain of choice. Chocolate cake, cheesecake, carrot cake, apple pie, cherry pie, strawberry shortcake, cupcakes and cookies. Too much choice. She couldn’t even pick. Matteo waved his hand. “Just give us one of everything. We’ll share.”

The words seem to bring her back to her senses. “Matteo? We’ll never be able to eat all that.”