Why wasn’t Chiara taking better care of herself? My phantom heart panged, useless organ that it was.
Of course, having been raised with three older sisters, I knew better than to remark upon her appearance.
Given our exchange the previous evening, I expected her to be snippy with me. But, surprisingly, she politely asked me about my night. And then stole glances at me as she prepared her breakfast and patiently waited for a cup of coffee to brew.
It was . . . unexpected.
Was she feeling all right? Had something happened? Where was the snarky, irritating Chiara I knew? Not that I minded her quiet and contemplative, it was just . . . unnatural. I debated asking her about it for a solid ten minutes but, as the brother to three older sisters, I kept my mouth shut.
After breakfast, she collected her laptop and set up a mobile work station on one of the games tables in the large drawing room.
“Alright. Let’s start researching this, shall we?” She kicked out the chair next to her, indicating I should take a seat.
“Pardon?” I asked as I strolled over to her and sat down, still very much unsure about her current mood. She seemed positively . . . mature.
I loved immature, obnoxious Chiara. A mature version of that was all fine and well, but I liked the original better.
What was up?
“You. D’Angelos. Scars in reality.” She didn’t even look up as she spoke, logging in to the D’Angelo archive on her computer.
Well. That was decidedly business-like and efficient of her. And not a drop of personality.
I grimaced. I was going to have to ask it after all.
“Chiara, are you feeling all right?”
Her head snapped up to meet my gaze, expression polite and neutral.
I pressed on. “You keep looking at me like . . .” I wasn’t sure how to complete that sentence without getting my head snipped off, so I backtracked. “Are you feeling well?”
She paused, as if thinking. “I’m feeling well, thank you. And you?”
Were my eyes as wide and alarmed as I felt? Something was decidedly off. Soft? Gentle? Who was this woman and where had she stowed Chiara D’Angelo?
For the first time in recent memory, my lordly manners slipped. I intended to ask an intelligent follow-up question, but instead, I’m quite sure I simply gaped.
“Areyouokay, Jack?” Chiara’s brow furrowed, gaze still calm.
Chiara like this, coolly polite and solicitous . . . it was shades of Sofia. And that wasn’t necessarily a good comparison. I had been a Peer of the Realm, for heaven’s sake. I had already spent a lifetime surrounded by civility and deference.
Yes, I had once thought I was in love with Sofia, but my emotions for Sofia were a pale imitation of those I carried for Chiara. The two woman bore a shallow physical resemblance—in the way that cousins might look like siblings—but even there, the differences were pronounced. Chiara’s face was more pixie-like and animated. Her eyes more expressive and her nose more button than regal. Her body more curvy.
But any similarities ended there. In personality, Chiara and Sofia were polar opposites. Sofia had been polite and distant.
By contrast, Chiara was fire and spunk. Snark and laughter and life. I adored matching wits with a woman who could go toe-to-toe with me and win. Furthermore, I was intelligent enough to realize that her fiery response to my teasing indicated her emotional connection to me.
Basically, I loved that I could get a rise out of her. Verbally sparring with Chiara D’Angelo was easily my favorite activity.
So quiet, calm Chiara seemed an aberration of nature. What had occurred? Why the sudden distance? Had our tiff the night before broken some aspect of our relationship? Had I finally crossed a line too far?
“Are you okay?” she repeated.
No.“Yes,” I replied, carefully enunciating the word.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
