I knew something wasn't right. "Why?" I ask.
"I didn't want to make you worry, so I didn't mention it," he says with guilt before meeting my eyes. "I'm sorry."
I reach for his hand and squeeze gently. "What did he say?" Finn sighs, running his hand through his hair, and my heartraces. "Did something bad happen?" I say, not realizing I ask out loud.
"No," he answers quickly, trying to ease my fears.
"He just warned us that we still have to be careful. Declan might be gone, but his loyalists still remain, and there've been some rumors about them in Boston and Philly."
I swallow, the taste of the wine turning sour in my mouth. I thought we were past this. My heart drums against my ribs and I take a deep, heavy breath. "Hey, hey, hey," Finn says, turning me to face him. He cups my face with both his palms. "We're fine, okay? Nothing bad is going to happen." He leans in and kisses my forehead, but my chest still feels tight.
"I don't want anything to happen to you, Finn," I say, my voice low and laced with the fear of losing him.
"Nothing bad is going to happen," he assures me, raising my hand to his lips to kiss it. "We're safe tonight, and we made it. That's all we need to focus on, okay?"
I let out a deep breath, releasing the tension in my chest with it. I nod, not ready to ruin this beautiful night with my fear. Finn pulls me into his arms, slowly lying us both down on the blanket as we watch the night sky. I relax into his touch, losing myself in the stars and clouds above.
CHAPTER 42
Finn
"Wake up, Finn,"Gianna's voice cuts through the fog in my head. I groan and roll over, ignoring it. "Finn!" she says again, louder this time, and something soft lands on my face—a shirt, maybe? I groan again, peeling it off and cracking one eye open. Big mistake.
The sunlight streaming through the window hits me square in the face, and I nearly curse. I slam my eyes shut again, head pounding like someone's playing drums behind my eyeballs. After a moment, I slowly try again, squinting into the brightness and willing the room to stop spinning.
"We're going to be late for our flight," Gianna's voice rings in my head again. She's across the room, standing in front of the open closet, stuffing clothes into a suitcase with an efficiency that makes me feel even more like a zombie.
"Finn," she calls me again. I groan and force myself upright, rubbing my temples. My head is still aching. I had too much to drink last night.
"I'm up already," I mumble, my voice still hoarse from sleep. How is she so energetic? "My head is about to explode," I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"There's a hangover drink right there," Gianna says, pointing to the bedside stand. I glance to my side. Sure enough, a little green bottle sits there. I grab it, unscrew the cap, and toss the whole thing back in one gulp. It's sour and sharp, but instantly soothing, at least enough to ease the dryness in my mouth and dull the ache in my skull, but I still need to drink water.
I drop the empty bottle on the bedside table, blinking at the light again, and my eyes fall on Gianna. She's still in the red dress from last night, the one that made me forget how to breathe. She's so focused, pulling clothes from the hangers, folding them neatly, and placing them into the suitcase. Her hair keeps falling into her face, and she tucks it behind her ear with a frown, one that somehow looks adorable even in her mild frustration.
I still can't believe she's my wife. Yesterday wasn't just a dream, and waking up beside her, hungover or not, is a reality I don't think I'll ever get used to. I rub my hand down my face, trying to gather myself. My memories of how we got back here are hazy at best. After we left the rooftop, everything became a blur. And somehow, we ended up home. I don't remember how we did.
I do remember waking up a few times at night. We were in our bed, and Gianna was still in my arms, curled against me like she belonged there. Hair sprawled against the pillow, breathing soft and steady, looking like an angel.
"You know our flight is at 4:00 P.M., right? It's still morning," I point out, rubbing the side of my face, wondering why she's in such a hurry. She whips her head towards me, one brow raised, like she can't believe what I'm saying.
"Finn, it's 2:00 o'clock in the afternoon."
That sobers me.
I scramble for my phone on the bedside stand. She's right. "Shit!" I curse, throwing the blanket off and nearly tripping out of bed.
"We slept through the day," Gianna says, and I begin to take off my clothes. I start yanking off my shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons. They seem to be working against me now, and I growl in frustration before just pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. I rush into the bathroom.
The second the cold shower hits my skin, I exhale hard. The pounding in my head begins to ease. My thoughts clear. I waste no time in the shower before stepping out with a towel around my waist and another in my hand, drying my hair. As I step into the room, Gianna rushes past me. "Pack your things," she calls over her shoulder, disappearing into the bathroom.
I chuckle, dropping the towel on a nearby chair in the room. I pick up a suitcase and zip it open, my focus turning to the closet. As I open it, the colors of my clothes hit me. Not too long ago, my wardrobe was a black-and-gray factory line. Then Gianna came along and decided that needed to change. She said I needed color to match the life we were building. Maybe she's right.
I pull out my shirt and trousers, tugging them from the hangers and folding them neatly into the suitcase.
Gianna and I are leaving New York for a short trip, and I don't want to spend more time here, especially after what I told Gianna yesterday.
By the time I finish packing and changing into an outfit, Gianna is out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel. Her skin is glistening, her hair damp and wild. She moves to the vanity mirror and starts drying her hair.
