“I’m the psycho woman who shot you—”
“Youcannotstill be on that. I thought we were way past it. I’m herebecauseyou shot me. I can do this—” My good sense lost the battle with my body. I reached for her hand, tucking my fingers into her palm. “—becauseyou shot me. Please stop beating yourself up over it.”
Electricity hummed at the physical contact. I rubbed my thumb across the back of her impossibly soft skin.
We both stared at our joined hands. It wasn’t enough.
“Come here.” I tugged and she came to me. A tiny bit reluctantly, but she came nonetheless.
Chiara walked into my embrace, wrapping her arms around me and burying her face in my chest.
I may have gasped or sighed or something. Becausefinallyholding her again . . . knowing I could hold her all day if I chose . . . without a time limit, without pain . . .
I adored how she fit me. She was the perfect size to cuddle under my chin and press a kiss to the top of her head.
“This is nice,” I murmured against her hair.
She nodded.
“We should do this a lot,” I said.
I thought my words were innocent enough, but Chiara reacted. She stiffened and tensed. Her arms squeezed, causing me to grunt in pain.
“I’m so sorry.” She pulled back quickly. “I forgot about your ribs.”
Grimacing, I stretched, gently holding my side.
“Are you okay?” Her voice was anxious.
Who was this concerned, subdued woman? And what had she done with my Chiara?
I pasted my most mournful look on my face. “I don’t know. I might have to find someone to kiss it better.”
I don’t know what I expected her to do after that comment. Swat my arm? Poke my sore side in retribution?
Kiss me senseless?
I had all but asked her to, after all.
Instead, she simply looked concerned and ignored my comment. “How are you healing? Catch me up on everything.”
Not quite the reaction I was going for. Perhaps we were on shakier ground than I had thought. I needed to not push her, move at her pace.
I would win her over. There would be enough time later to discuss us and our future, preferably together.
To that end, I tugged Chiara over to the couch and sat down beside her.
We chatted about my recovery and her involvement with the Tempeste case. We discussed Cesareil Pompaso’s words and what we intended to do from here.
We talked for several hours, Chiara drifting closer and closer to me, until her shoulder leaned into mine and our knees touched. Having her close . . . it was heaven.
But despite her physical closeness, she carefully steered our conversation away from the one topic that currently interested me most—us.
Chiara
Being with Jack—solid, corporeal Jack—was a potent mix of intense longing and masochistic pain. I loved being with him, hearing his voice, touching him.
Let me repeat that—touchinghim.
