Wassup, Jack?
Anyof those would have been acceptable responses after not seeing each other for a while.
Instead, I went with, “Spinster? Really, Jack? I thought you were trying to learn the lingo seeing how it’s the twenty-first century and all.”
Mentally, I winced. Seriously, I really did need to improve my brain-to-mouth filters. Why did I think one thing and yet spew another?
“’Tis a pleasure to see you too, Chiara.” His tone was perfect and polite. However, his blue eyes sparked with humor and sent awareness flooding straight through me.
No matter how long I went between seeing him, that moment where our eyes reconnected always lingered.
A skip to my heart. A tightness to my throat. A strong desire to curl away from the directness of him. The sense that he saw all my broken and messy with unflinching clarity and accepted it.
Jack always peeled back the curtains and shone light into those dark places in my soul that I preferred to keep hidden.
So . . . I was a hot mess. So what? That didn’t mean I wanted other people to know it.
For the thousandth time, I reminded myself that Jack didn’t do it on purpose. It was just who he was. He couldn’t help being irritatingly insightful and arrogantly lordly any more than I could help my little dog syndrome.
Huffing an irritated breath at myself, I turned back to my bread, slathering Nutella on mypane pugliese. Some things were too good to let terrifying lightning bolts and uninvited British lords spoil. Chocolatey, gooey Nutella slathered onto a thick slice of the spongy bread from Puglia in southern Italy was definitely one of those.
I slid the bread onto a plate, dumped an absurd amount of caramel cream into my espresso and took a seat at the kitchen table.
I studied Jack as I ate. He hadn’t changed over the past year. Same clothes, same stubble, same tousled hair. Same general transparency. The resemblance to a young Harrison Ford really was uncanny.
Jack merely watched me, eyes narrowed. He was probably using his super powers to ravage my consciousness. His eyebrow was still raised. A subtle challenge.I startled you and got in the last word. Are you going to one-up me?
Drat the man. Jack knew that letting something go without retaliation was not in my DNA. I kinda hated that he understood me so well.
My eye twitched.I don’t play your games.
A small smile tugged at his lips.Oh, but I think you do.
We didn’t actually communicate mind-to-mind. More like me assigning words to his body language.
Deep breath.
You can be polite to this man. Be the adult.
“I assume you didn’t hitchhike from Volterra?” I asked after a moment.
He shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. “Definehitchhike? If being accosted by sorority girls from Dallas who insisted on driving me up here counts as hitchhiking, then I might be guilty.”
A beat.
Hehadto be lying . . . intent on ruffling my feathers again and baiting me into a reaction.
“Seriously, Jack? You’re lying. I think you’ve been watching too much television.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I studied him. He had a good game face, I would give him that. I got nothing.
I shook my head. “The media is already in a tizzy over you. They can’t learn that you’re a ghost.” I licked Nutella off a finger. “Besides, why would you encourage college coeds to hit on you?”
Jack spread his arms wide.Can you blame them?
I glared.You can’t possibly be that desperate.
