I had nearly gone stir-crazy over the last two weeks, worried about Jack and essentially cut off from the real world. The indictment stuff had been necessary, but it had taken an emotional toll. Too much time in my own brain made me second-guess everything.
I knew that I adored Jack. And he clearly cared about me. But . . . was I the best thing for Jack? He deserved to be with a much better human being than myself.
I mean, Jack had been crazy hot even as a disheveled, Regency-era ghost. But now . . .
My brain short-circuited with that first look—form-fitting shirt with cuffed sleeves, designer jeans with just the right amount of tightness. His dark auburn hair trimmed and styled, his stubble shaved. His eyes impossibly blue.
But more than the sight of him, it was the feel and smell of him that overwhelmed me. He had on some delicious cologne that wrapped around my senses and made my knees go weak. Now leaning against the hard, warm solidity of his body. Gah!
I couldn’t think too much about him, honestly. Because if I did, I would only want more and more of him and no need to addravisherto my psycho girlfriend resume.
A huge part of me knew we needed to talk. There were things that needed to be said. I had half expected to emerge from my seclusion with the police to find that Jack had decided to part ways with me.
Thankfully he hadn’t. At least, not yet, which gave me hope. Maybe he still wanted to be with me.
But if so, I felt he needed a chance to really choose me, not just be stuck with me because of things that had happened before he got his body back.
I wanted to be Jack’s ultimate choice, not his obligation.
But I was still worried. I was terrible girlfriend material. I had enormous emotional issues I wasn’t sure I was ready to confront. And part of me was afraid of opening up the conversation with Jack, giving him the chance to walk away.
And so like a mature adult . . . I completely avoided the topic and stuffed all my neediness back down that emotional black hole and refused to talk about it.
Instead, I steered the conversation to the odd architectural drawing.
“I have explored the site a bit more,” Jack said, motioning out the open French doors toward the ruined tower. “But I haven’t found anything too unusual.”
“Uhm-hmm,” I agreed in my most non-committal way.
I didn’t look toward the tower. Crazy how much anger I held in my heart for Babbo. I had cried it out the night Jack was shot—correction, the night IshotJack—but if anything, I had felt only more raw afterwards, not less. Nothing had really been resolved within me.
So I was actually angry instead of sad . . . so what?
If I was moving through the five stages of grief—shock, denial, anger, bargaining, acceptance—then I had been in the Land of Denial for a solid eighteen years. Which meant I might get around to accepting my father’s behavior by the time I retired.
Go me.
“Would you be willing to look at the tower with me?” Jack asked, standing and stretching his hand my way. “I would appreciate your thoughts.”
I grimaced.
Jack noticed my hesitation. “Please,Chiara mia?”
How could I say no?
Sheesh. You shoot a guy once and suddenly he’s gotallthe power in the relationship.
I rocked to my feet and threaded my hand with Jack’s, letting him pull me outside.
We walked out across the terrace to the garden planted around the fallen stones. The day was typical, sunny Tuscan summer. The flowers bobbed in the slight breeze, rustling against the fallen stones.
My mood spiraled down and down with each step.
Jack paused beside me. “As a ghost, the area here felt . . . heavier.”
“It did?” Huh. Maybe my feelings weren’t entirely driven by my Daddy issues.
“Yes. Actually—” He stopped, thinking. “It felt a lot like the scars. Not as strong, obviously, but similar. Something happened there.”
