Beautiful? Elegant? Yes.
Cute? Never.
Me? I was cute little Chiara who had spent her senior year of high school in Portland being randomly picked up and carried about by members of the football team. Cause that’s not annoying or anything.
But this issue with the lightning bolt was likely serious, and I did value my life over my pride.
So I pulled on latex gloves and carefully removed the lightning bolt from my bedpost and placed it into a plastic evidence sleeve. I would have Branwell read it for me ASAP. Hopefully, he would hear something useful. In the meantime, I repeated my decision to not stress over the paper cutout. Worrying about it would do no good.
I told myself that over and over as I twisted my hair up with an elastic and went about my day.
I started by checking in with Nonna on her cruise. I had paid an exorbitant fee to be able to call her at anytime, and I abused the privilege with abandon. I loved my grandma. Nonna chatted about flirting with the silver foxes on board the boat and playing bingo ’til all hours of night.
Us D’Angelo women knew how to par-tay.
I hung up with a promise to call her later.
From there, I listened through voice mail after voice mail.
Ms. D’Angelo, we would love a comment about Jack Knight-Snow . . .
Candy White, again. Our viewers are dying for more glimpses of Jack . . .
. . . is it hard to be around that much male beauty all day long?
. . . huge bounty on images of Jack. Help us out and we can split the check . . .
I finally gave up. D’Angelo Enterprises was the media’s main point of contact for Jack. I knew this. But Jack needed to hire an assistant. I didn’t have time to be his social secretary. Or his wingman. Or his online dating service.
For about the thousandth time, I asked myself why Jack was different? If it were anyone else, I probably wouldn’t mind all the media attention flung my way. I most certainly wouldn’t stew over it. Why did any situation involving Jack send my blood pressure skyrocketing?
Sure he could be annoying, but I rarely saw him. Anyone was tolerable in tiny doses. So why did I think about him constantly? Why was I having hot dreams about him one minute and fuming over him the next? I needed to let my angsty feelings go and be the bigger person (insert short girl joke here).
To that end, I decided I would call him up later and have a civil conversation regarding the hiring of an assistant.
Man, I was adulting like abosstoday.
That decided, I went in search of breakfast despite the time being past lunch. I love breakfast and don’t particularly care for clocks.
Though I did have to climb onto my stool to snag breakfast stuff out of the cupboard. I love my mom, but she is one of the Amazon women. She put things away without thinking of the consequences.
The plight of little people.
As I finished prepping my food, a flicker of movement darted past the edge of my vision.
“Here we see the odd breakfasting ritual of the Italian spinster.” A deep David Attenborough-esque voice narrated, aristocratic accent crisp and clear. “It begins with a smattering of Nutella spread with quick efficiency atop a slice ofpane pugliese—”
I jumped and whirled. Jack took a step back, eyes dancing with teasing mirth.
All the emotions I had been feeling earlier flooded me in a nearly Pavlovian wave—annoyance, irritation, hostility, delight in seeing him again—
Wait. No. Scratch the last one.
But that solitary blip scrambled my brain. Good intentions fled.
Hello, Jack. Nice to see you.
Sheesh, you startled me.
