Free French Pressed by Cleo Coyle Page A

after a month of his not sleeping with you?”
    I threw the second shoe.
    “Hey!” Matt lifted his cast again, and it bounced off. Then he actually had the nerve to grin at me. “Looks like you’re out of ammo!”
    “Arrrrrggggh!”
    “Come on, Clare. Truce? How about we for call for pizza? Sal’s delivers all night.”
    “I’d rather reload with a closet full of shoes!”
    I wheeled and stormed out of the living room. My adrenaline had been pumping, and I had no interest in going to bed, but I had to get away from Matt. Unfortunately, he didn’t get the hint. Matt’s footsteps followed mine right up the duplex’s short staircase and into the master bedroom.
    Madame had decorated this duplex years ago, when she’d lived here with Matt’s father. Not only had she filled the place with amazing antiques, she’d lined the walls—bedroom and marble bath included—with lovingly framed sketches, doodles, watercolors, and oils that had been created over the decades by artists who’d frequented the Village Blend, from Edward Hopper and Jackson Pollack to Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat.
    The four-poster bed of carved mahogany was one of my favorite pieces in the master bedroom, and it didn’t even completely dominate the space. Commanding just as much attention on the opposite wall was a carved hearth of ivory-colored marble. A century-old, gilt-edged French mirror hung above the fireplace, and a chandelier of pale rose Venetian glass hung from a fleur-de-lis medallion in the center of the ceiling.
    The walls had been painted the same pale rose as the imported chandelier, while the door and window frames echoed the same shade of ivory as the marble fireplace and silk sheers covering the floor-to-ceiling casement windows.
    It was a stunning room in a spectacular apartment, which was unbelievably convenient for me, since the Blend was just two flights down. And, until this evening, I hadn’t seriously considered giving up the use of it. Affordable apartments were scarce in Manhattan and rent-free, fully furnished duplexes in the West Village weren’t just unheard of, they were a fairy tale come true.
    Unfortunately for me, this fairy tale came with a troll—one who seemed to take delight in popping up at the worst possible times. Matt’s constant world traveling usually kept him out of the picture. A few days a month, tops, he’d need to crash in the second bedroom. But since he’d broken his arm, Matt had grounded himself. That hadn’t been my problem until this minute.
    “Come on, Clare,” Madame’s son cooed to me, “let’s not fight…There’s another reason I’m here, you know, not just Breanne’s horny housekeeper—”
    “Get out of this bedroom!”
    “Not until you hear me out.”
    Matt took a step closer. I folded my arms and frowned, trying not to notice how well the troll happened to be put together tonight, with black wool slacks that were perfectly creased and pleated, a pale yellow cashmere sweater that was probably softer than kitten fur, and an Italian-made bronze jacket cut from a leather so supple it looked good enough to eat.
    Matt wore clothes well. No doubt about it. But for years, as the Blend’s coffee buyer, he rarely wore anything fancier than sturdy hiking boots, well-worn jeans, and fraying rock band T-shirts.
    Trekking the Third World’s high-altitude coffee farms for the choicest cherries was light-years from a fashion show runway, which is why I was sure tonight’s obviously pricey outfit had been handpicked by Breanne. This was nothing new, of course. Since they’d started dating, Bree had been dolling up Matt like one of Trend ’s cover models. She’d probably paid for the garments, too, or gotten them gratis from one of her designer friends.
    “What is it you want to say to me, Matt? Make it quick.”
    “I miss you,” he declared, his big brown bedroomy eyes wide.
    “You do not.”
    “Do, too.”
    I folded my arms. “You’re not blinking.”
    Matt