Read Online French Pressed by Cleo Coyle - Free Book Online Page B

door opened.
    “Hey, Clare!”
    Oh, no.
    Short, black hair on a square-jawed face, Roman nose, cleft chin, and a hard body courtesy of his favorite extreme sports: rock climbing, cliff diving, mountain biking, and meaningless sex (not necessarily in that order). My ex-husband beamed at me through the wedge of swinging wood. He pushed the fissure wider, and his cheesy grin fell.
    “Quinn?”
    Mike blew out air. “Allegro.”
    I squeezed my eyes shut, willing away the ruination of my evening. But it didn’t work. When I opened my eyes again, Matteo Allegro was still standing in the doorway, his right arm in a white plaster cast, his left shouldering an overstuffed athletic bag. He’d come back to stay.
    My ex-husband glanced at me, then glared at Mike Quinn. “What’s he doing here?”
    “Clare and I have been seeing each other for a month now,” Mike levelly replied. “And you knew that already, Allegro, so don’t be a horse’s ass.”
    Matt flipped his key ring. “Gee, thanks for clearing that up, Detective. Because I thought you might be staking out the place to arrest me again.”
    Quinn shook his head, looked down at me. The warmth had drained from his blue eyes. The chilly cop curtain was back. “I’ve got to go.”
    As he began to turn away, I touched the sleeve of his overcoat. “The key,” I whispered, holding it out again.
    “Can’t.” He jerked his head toward my ex. “Not if he’s here.”
    I wanted to scream, but it wouldn’t have helped. I stood dumbfounded and horrified, watching Quinn’s sturdy form stride out while my ex-husband sauntered in. As they passed each other through the doorway, Matt purposely bumped the detective with his bulging canvas bag.
    “Grow up, Allegro, will you?” Quinn bit out before continuing downstairs.
    Matt moved into the duplex’s antique-filled living room and dropped his bag onto the Persian rug. “What’s his problem?”
    “He doesn’t have the problem! I do!”
    I chased after Mike, following him down to the shop to let him out and lock up again. I tried once more to offer the key, but he absolutely refused to come back with Matt in the apartment. How could I blame him? If the tables were turned, and Mike’s estranged wife had appeared with a legal right to use his living space, I would have felt the same way.
    “I could come to your place,” I offered.
    “No.” He gently touched my cheek. “It’ll be a while before I’m off. You get some rest. I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

     
    A FTER trudging back up to the duplex, I found Matt in the kitchen, fixing himself a fresh pot of coffee—or at least trying to. With his right arm in that cast, he was making a royal mess of it.
    “Clare, this Brita pitcher needs refilling. And the filter needs to be changed.” He shook his head at the spilled water on the counter. “How could you not notice?”
    “I’ll give you something not to notice!” I took off my shoe and hurled it at him.
    “Hey!” Matt lifted his cast to fend off my flying pump. “What’s gotten into you?”
    “Matt, why are you here ? Four weeks ago, you moved in with Breanne!”
    Breanne Summour to be exact, editor-in-chief of Trend magazine, aka Snarks ’r’ Us , as the blogging chef of one snidely reviewed restaurant famously tagged it.
    Breanne and Matt had been dating for about a year now. Given my ex’s desire for publicity and Breanne’s need for a hunky escort to fashionable events, they were a match made in Manhattan, or at the very least the New York tabloids. Every so often, I’d notice their picture in the Post ’s Page Six or one of the tony glossies at my hair salon: “ Trend ’s top editor is looking especially perky tonight on the arm of international coffee broker Matteo Allegro.”
    Matt continually claimed his “friendship” with Breanne was just “casual,” which in Matt-speak naturally included casual sex. But then Matt broke his arm, and Breanne turned into Florence Nightingale. This was