Damaged 2 (21 page)

"I'll
carry you on our wedding day."

"Deal."
Peter carries me inside and stops. The house is beautiful and fully furnished.
My jaw drops, and there's no way to take it all in fast enough. "Wow." Peter
turns slowly, still holding me. There's a new kitchen, decked out with
stainless appliances, granite counter tops, and the cutest bistro set I've ever
seen. The dark floors from that room flow into the living room where we are
standing. There's a fluffy white couch, built-in bookcases, a corner fireplace,
and a huge television. My dad grunts with approval and finds a seat on the
couch.

Peter
turns again and faces a narrow staircase that leads to the bedrooms upstairs.
"Want to go check it out?"

"Hell,
yes. After seeing this, I want to run up the stairs." Peter sets me down and
walks up the staircase with me. There's a small bathroom in the hall and a
lovely second bedroom, complete with bed, nightstand, and a comfy chair. "This
is so pretty."

Peter
cracks the door to the master bedroom and says, "You're going to love this." I
walk up behind him and try to peek around, but Peter pulls the door so I can't
see. "While I was talking to Sean, I mentioned some things. I didn't tell him
to do any of this. He figured it out on his own."

I
laugh nervously. "Okay, now you're freaking me out." Peter smiles softly and
pushes the door open. I stand frozen in the doorway. "Oh my God, it's
beautiful." Everywhere I look is perfect. The room is soft colors, a very pale
blue with big fat white moldings. The dark floor is stained with a gloss that's
so shiny I can see my reflection. A big bed is against one wall with a padded
headboard that has little jewels nestled in the tufts. A downy white bedspread
is on top, and sheer fabric flows from the ceiling to the floor, draping the
head of the bed. In the corner is an antique record player. I walk toward it
slowly, thinking that it's a reproduction of an old Victrola, but when I'm
standing over it I do a double take. I point at the record player. "Oh my God!
That's real!"

Peter
is walking around in the closet—at least I thought it was a closet, but his
voice echoes. "Read the record label."

I
glance at the black disc and squeal. "It's Benny Goodman! How did he find this
stuff?" I turn the player on, careful not to scratch the record, and hear one
of my favorite songs. "Oh my God, Peter. Could this be more perfect?"

"I
don't know. You haven't seen this room yet." He sticks his head out and says,
"Come take a look."

I
walk through the small doorway, thinking that it's a storage room or something,
and then gape. The attic was converted into a massive master bathroom. A white
claw-foot tub sits under a skylight. White cabinets line the walls with big
mirrors centered above hammered copper sinks. Tiny pale blue glass tiles
glitter within wall niches, and a beautiful huge shower is nestled into the
corner of the room. I stand there, staring.

"How
did he have time to do this?"

Peter
walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. "The obvious answer is
that he started this the night he met you, but that seems unbelievable based on
the way he behaved."

"Just
a bit, yeah."

"I
told him that I wanted to marry you, that you were the one. He knew from that
night forward that I was serious about you." Peter turns me around in his arms.
"This is a helluva present."

I
nod and smile. "It means I don't have to leave Dad, and that me and you can
have a fresh start, but what about a job?"

Peter
releases me and pulls his phone from his back pocket. He taps the screen as he
talks. "Since we'll be sharing a bank account, you should know our financial
situation. Here"—he hands me his phone—"take a look."

I
take it and glance down at the screen. I blink a few times, thinking that I'm
seeing it wrong. When I glance up, Peter is smiling. "You said you were broke."
I don't understand. He's loaded. Peter doesn't have to work if he doesn't want
to, like ever. There's more money in his account than what Sean offered me back
at the Ferro mansion.

"I
said I wasn't the heir and that I was all right, and I am. I invested my trust
fund and did well. I lived off my salary so this kept growing. I'm not as rich
as Sean or Jon, but I'm far from broke." Peter grins at me. "I told you that
I'd take care of you. Did you really think I had nothing?"

I
nod and shove my eyeballs back into my face. "Well, yeah. Your living room was
full of flakeboard furniture. It looked more like a dorm room than a
professor's home."

He
shrugs. "It wasn't home to me, so I didn't spend much to fix it up. There was
no reason to, not until I met you."

"So
you don't have to work?" Peter shakes his head. "But I bet you want to teach."

He
nods and steps toward me. "Yeah, I liked being in a classroom."

"We'll
have to do something about that."

"Actually,"
Peter says and glances up at me from under those dark lashes, "I already have.
Remember how I mentioned that Jon's impulsive? Well, he bought something around
here a couple years back."

"What
did he buy?"

"A
private school. He was trying to impress a hot girl."

"Aren't
we all?" I can't imagine how that would help Jon impress a girl, but it sounds
about right based on what Sean and Peter said about the youngest Ferro.

Peter
laughs and says, "Jonathan Ferro Prep is about an hour from here and needs an
English teacher."

"Is
that so, Professor?"

He
nods. "After my mother stormed off, Jon said he'd make me king if I helped him
deal with Mom and his latest investment. When I realized where this school was
located, I said yes. The only hitch in my devious master plan was if you wanted
to go back to Texas or you said no when I proposed. I totally thought the
turkey was going to eat your ring, by the way…speaking of the fat bird, come
here." Peter moves to the window and pulls back the curtain. "Check it out."

I
glance down and see an enormous perch right next to the patio with a big black
bird sitting on it. "Aw, Sean delivered Mr. Turkey after we left."

"So"—Peter
turns me toward him—"are we staying here or moving back to Texas?"

"It
sounds like it's time to start over and this is the perfect place, the perfect
house, with the perfect husband-to-be."

Peter
takes me in his arms and dips his head, pressing his lips to mine. When he
pulls away, he says, "I love you, Sidney Colleli."

"I
love you, too, Peter Granz. Now give me some of that coffee you're always
talking about."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thank you to all the amazing fans who love Peter (Ferro) Granz and Sidney! You guys rocked DAMAGED 1 onto the best-seller lists where it stayed for a crazy long time!

If you love Peter, you should check out two more series with the other Ferro Brothers: THE ARRANGEMENT revolves around the dangerous and devastated Sean Ferro, and STRIPPED is a novel that tells the story of the youngest Ferro brother, Jonathan.

These three series crisscross at points giving you more of the characters you love!

THE FERRO FAMILY OF BOOKS

Three series tell the story of the Ferro brothers. Enjoy!

_________

DAMAGED

(Peter Ferro's Story)

*

THE ARRANGEMENT

(Sean Ferro's Story)

Volumes 1 - 7 available

*

STRIPPED

(Jonathan Ferro's Story)

To ensure you don't miss any of the FERRO brothers, text AWESOMEBOOKS to 22828 and you will get an e-mail reminder on release day, and
pre-order STRIPPED today.

CHAPTER 1

The night air is frigid. It doesn't help
that I'm stuck wearing this little black dress in my crap car. I shiver as I
try to keep the engine running at a red light. My little battered car is from
two decades ago and stalls if I don't rev the engine while I have my foot on
the brake. I'm driving with two feet in a car that's supposed to be an
automatic. The heater doesn't work. If I try to turn it on, I'll get my face
blasted with white smoke. It's awesome, in an utterly humbling kind of way. At
least the car is mine. It gets me where I need to go, most of the time.

The light flips to green and I botch it.
I don't gas the car enough, and it shudders and stalls. I grumble and grab for
the can of ether. The cars behind me blare their horns.

I ignore them. They can go around me. I
grab the can on the seat next to me, kick open my door, and walk around to the
hood. I shake the can and spray it into the engine intake. The car will start
up as soon as I turn the key now, and I can drive away in shame.

The night air is crisp and filled with
exhaust. This road is always busy. It doesn't matter what time of day it is.
Angry drivers move around me. Everyone is always in a hurry. It's part of the
New York frame of mind. I'm treated to a catcall as a car full of guys blows
past me. I flip them the bird and hear their laughter echo as they fade from sight.

Tonight couldn't possibly get any worse.
I put the cap on the can of ether. Then it happens. My night takes a one-eighty
straight into suckage.

As I drop the hood, it slams shut, and I
look through the windshield. "Seriously?" I say at the guy who jumps in my
seat. He's wearing a once-blue fluffy coat and hasn't shaved for weeks. He
turns the key and my crappy car roars to life. He gasses it and takes off,
swerving around me. I stand in the lane staring after him. What a moron. Who'd
steal that piece of trash?

Still, it's my car and I need it. After
the night I had, I don't want to run after him, but I have to. I need that car.
I take off at a full run. My lungs start to burn as I suck in frozen air and
exhaust. I run down the shoulder, avoiding trash that's lying in the gutter. My
attention is singularly focused on my car. I push my body harder and feel my
muscles protest, but I don't hold back. He's getting away.

I manage to run a block when a guy on a
motorcycle slows next to me. "That guy stole your car." He sounds shocked.

I can't see his face through the black
helmet. It has a tinted visor that covers his face. "No shit, Sherlock," I huff
and keep running. My purse is in the car, my only pair of work-acceptable
heels, my books—aw, fuck, my books. I paid over a grand for those. They're
worth more than the car. I run faster. My dress flares around my thighs as my
Chucks help me sprint forward. My body doesn't want to do it. The stitch in my
side feels like it's going to bust open.

The guy on the bike is annoying. He
rolls next to me and flips up his face shield. I glance at him, wondering what
he's doing. Biker guy looks at me like I'm crazy. "Are you trying to catch
him?"

"Yes." Pointing ahead, huffing. There
are three lights on this stretch of road before the ramp to get on the parkway.
If he hits a red light, the car will stall and I'll get it back. My lungs are
burning, and it's not like I have time to explain this. My car has already
passed the first light. "If he stops, the car will stall."

"You want me to help?" He glances at the
car and then back at me.

I stop and nearly double over. Holy
hell, I'm out of shape. I nod and throw my leg over the back of his bike,
flashing the cars driving past us. I so don't care. Wrapping my arms around his
waist, I hold on tight and say, "Go."

"I was going to call the cops, but this
works, too." He sounds amused. I hold onto his trim waist and plaster myself
against his back. He's wearing a leather jacket, and I can feel his toned body
through the supple material. He pulls into traffic and zips through the lanes.
The wind blasts my hair and plasters my eyelashes wide open. We bob and weave,
getting closer and closer to my car. My heart is racing so fast that it's going
to explode.