But he was also loyal and funny and capable and . . . yes, sexy as hell. And I genuinely cared about him. I wanted him to be happy.
Preferably with me.
My heart tumbled in my chest, finding a hole and sinking straight through to my heels.
I didn’t justlikeJack.
I maybelike-liked Jack.
And that was . . . problematic.
Because the more I thought about it, the more powerful the emotion became. That fluttery, scary sensation in my chest grew new feathers and fluffed itself outward, constricting my breathing and catching in my throat.
Forcing me tofinallyacknowledge it for what it was.
Romantical, emotional, lovey-dovey feelings for Jack.
I swallowed.
Well, I knew what that meant.
Jack must be psychotic after all.
Because my dumb heart only ever got involved with unbalanced, emotionally-stunted men. It was like they excreted specific Chiara-attracting pheromones.
Poor Jack. He had seemed so stable.
I swallowed back a lump of hysterical laughter. Oncoming cars continued to swish past me, including a string of tour buses.
What should I do about this new-found understanding?
Nothing. There was nothingtodo about it.
Jack was a ghost.
I was not.
It wasn’t as if a relationship between us was going to end well. All I needed was a sign labeled ‘psycho girlfriend’ and two thumbs pointed at my chest. I was obnoxious and controlling and snooping—
Jack deserved so much better than me.
“You okay up there?” Jack asked. “You’ve gone terribly silent. And you are engaging in that odd lip-chewing thing you do when you’re thinking far too hard about something.”
He knew my tells. Of course he did.
The man watched me. While. I. Slept.
If that wasn’t the definition of psychotic boyfriend, I didn’t know what was.
Yep.
We were so doomed.
“Chiara.” Voice warning.
“I’m good.” I gave him my most chipper smile in the rearview mirror. “Just driving.”
Jack’s head snapped to attention, eyes pinning me. “Okay. Now I’m terrified. Something is definitely up. You have your crazy eyes on.”
