TWENTY-FIVE
Chiara
Several hours later, I managed to talk about it. About Babbo and what he might have done. About my vision and what it meant.
Jack was his usual combination of fascinated, insightful and excited.
Tennyson took it all in tense silence, face impassive. I finally had enough of my brother’s grumpiness.
“Why aren’t you more happy about this?” I poked a finger at his chest. “This should be the best news of the year! There’s hope, Tennyson. Hope that you can open yourself up to love. Hope that you might have an ordinary life yet . . . a wife, kids . . . normalcy.”
He sat back, expression grim. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You’re . . . afraid? Of hope? Yeah, I know every time I seriously want to freak myself out, I think about how awesome it would be to live a normal, long, fulfilling life. That crap will give you nightmares—”
“Stop it.” His tone clearly indicated how lacking he found my sense of humor. “Hope . . . when you haven’t had any for as long as you can remember . . . can be a dangerous thing. Hope leads to wants. And wants lead to disappointment. And disappointment, when you are already on shaky emotional ground, can be deadly. So, yeah, Chiara. I can’t say I’m super eager to jump up and down in excited glee over this.”
Damn him. That sorta shut me up.
“Fine,” I snorted. “I’ll just have to have enough hope for both of us.”
Tennyson shook his head and stomped out of the room, my eyes following him.
What would happen with Tennyson? Being the troubled triplet on the verge of madness was sorta his niche. What happened to him if that was removed?
The more I thought about it, the more I saw his point. Accepting your fate and managing it as best you could was one thing. But fighting against it, holding on to hope and chasing after a solution . . . how long could he maintain that? How long before he crashed and burned?
A warm hand wrapped around mine. I turned, looking into Jack’s calm eyes. He smiled.
“We’ll be there to catch him,” he said, reading my mind. “We all love Tennyson too much to let him fail. We’ll find the solution.”
I looked down at our twined fingers.
“This is nice,” I said, lifting our joined hands.
Jack followed my gaze. “It is.” His eyes swung up to mine. “There is much we need to discuss, you and I.”
I swallowed and nodded. I wasn’t ready to chat yet. “First, I think we need to call Dante and Branwell and let them know what we found. My vision changes everything.”
I stood up, intent on my phone. Jack kept a tight hold on my hand.
I lurched back toward him, and Jack effortlessly pulled me onto his lap. I landed on top of him with an oomph.
His grunt of pain, not mine.
“Sorry.” I tried to push off him, but Jack’s arm was a vise around my waist.
“Stay,” he murmured, nuzzling his nose into the space between my ear and shoulder, sending goosebumps skittering down my spine.
Oh, Jack. The poor man. He deserved someone much better than me.
But I stayed. Because even though I knew he deserved better than me, I didn’t care. I was selfish and I adored him and I wanted him for myself.
I curled myself into a ball on Jack’s lap, my forehead pressed into that space between his jaw and shoulder. If my position hurt his sore ribs, he didn’t say anything.
We sat like that for a long while, the slow thump of his heart under my ear, our lungs rising and falling in synchronized breaths. Jack’s hand was a warm weight on my hip, thumb moving in an unconscious circle.
I wondered how long we would last. Me, with my psycho ways. Jack with his awesomeness and bevy of women at his beck and call.
I supposed it was only a matter of time before he threw me over for a less neurotic model. I couldn’t even say that I blamed him. Heaven knew, I was a terrible handful even at the best of times.
“Shhhhh.” Jack’s long exhale sounded next to my ear. “I can practically hear you over thinking this. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know that, J-Jack,” I whispered. “I’m just so happy you’re alive and you’re here and I know that I’m going to make a total mess of everything. I’m crazy and insane and competitive and bossy and obnoxious and you’re going to get so tired of me, I know it. And—”
Jack pressed a firm, warm finger against my lips. Silencing me.
“No.” His sexy posh accent rumbled through me. “Look at me.” He used his Lord Knight voice then.
I sat up and looked at him. That Lord Knight voice was nothing to mess with. C’mon . . . what red-blooded woman would say no to a voice like that?
He threaded a hand into my hair and pulled me closer to him. Every sense went on high alert. The warmth of his large body around me, the air moving in and out of his lungs. I lifted my hand to his face, the bristly rasp of his whiskers under my palm. I traced his jawline, dragging my finger down across his soft lips.
That was all it took.
Jack pulled me to him, fusing our mouths in a decidedly hungry kiss. Both my arms wound around his neck, plundering his thick hair.
I surrendered to it.
My love for this man. I adored him. I would always adore him. No matter what happened with us . . . even when my crazy eventually drove Jack away and left me heartbroken and alone.
I would always love him.
We kissed for an indecently long time. One of us would try to pull back, only to have the other reach for them, starting the process all over again.
Eventually, Jack lifted his head. “I was going to wait, talk things over with you . . . but I can’t help it.” He paused, his eyes welling with emotion. “I love you, Chiara D’Angelo.”
Oh!
“You do?” My voice climbed three octaves. “B-but I’m crazy.”
“Yes. I know, but I love you just as you are.”
“Oh, Jack!”
I hugged him. It might have been more of a stranglehold.
“Air. Ribs.”
“Sorry.” I instantly let go, sitting back, chewing on my lip. Jack leaned forward and kissed my mouth.
“You’re thinking too loudly again,” he said.
I pursed my lips, looking away and then bringing my gaze back to his. “Are you sure you love me? You’ve totally seen me at my worst with guys. You know I’m thoughtless and obnoxious, but I’ll try to control the crazy, I promise—”
“Hush.”
I pulled back. Had he just hushed me—?
“I like your brand of crazy.” Jack smiled, huge and delighted. “I never feel as alive as I do with you, Chiara mia.”
I blinked.
Oh.
“Well, then.” I licked my lips.
He touched my cheek, gently cupping my face in his enormous palm. His blue eyes brimmed. “Let me be perfectly clear. I love you, Chiara Elisabeta Carolina D’Angelo. You. I love your endless crazy curiosity. I love the enthusiasm you have for life. I love that the entire world is washed in vivid color when I’m with you. I adore how much love your big heart holds for your family and friends. I love that I want to be a better person when I am with you.”
“Jack—”
“No. I don’t want to hear any caveats put on this. I didn’t wait two hundred years for you to write off how I feel. It’s you. For me, it’s always been you.” He gave me a little emphasizing shake.
Somehow, I was crying again, swiping tears as they fell.
“I love you, too, Jack Knight-Snow.”
“I know,” was his smug reply.
I narrowed my eyes.
Jack laughed.
And suddenly all was right with the world.
Three days later, I had made a decision. More to the point, I acted on my decision.
Jack had been ‘properly courting’ me, he said, because I deserved to be treasured. To that end, he had sent me flowers, love poetry and a gorgeous platinum sparrow necklace.
He had hitched a ride up to Florence from Volterra with Tennyson the day before. Jack and I had an amazing afternoon shopping in town, followed by dinner and a moonlit walk.
I was so in love.
Being with him, holding his hand, snuggling into his side . . . laughing and teasing and being fully us . . . it was a perfect day. And when I woke to another TMZ barrage of images of us lip-locked on the Ponte Vecchio, I simply smiled and mentally high-fived myself for kissing such an amazing human being.
But I had things I needed to do today. Important things. I insisted Jack be ready to leave with me by ten o’clock in the morning.
“What’s up, Chiara?” he asked as we walked downstairs. “Where are we going?”
“Pisa,” I answered.
Silence for a couple steps.
“What’s in Pisa?”
“You’ll see.” I winked at him.
The drive promised to be fun. Well . . . once we settled our argument over who would drive. Jack pulled out all the Lord Knight stops.
“I’m driving,” I said as we reached the car.
“And as I said, I would like the opportunity to learn how to drive, so perhaps I should do so.” Jack made it sound so reasonable.
Of course, our massive shopping spree the day before meant Jack was one hundred percent international playboy. Slim, dark gray wool pants, mossy green collared shirt with the top button undone and sleeves cuffed, hair cut short on the sides but left a mop of auburn curls on top.
My heart did this Irish step-dancing jig every time I saw him. How had I bamboozled him into liking me?
Oh, that’s right. I shot him and landed him on a boatload of pain killers. That was about on par with how things went with most my boyfriends.
I was a freaking genius.
“Jack, driving in downtown Florence, Italy is not for the faint of heart, no matter how many years of driving experience you have. But to start out here? For the first time? Nope. Not gonna happen.”
“Chiara, I have been observing your driving habits for the past year. I assure you, I understand all the rules and mechanics of it.”
My eyebrows instantly drew down. “Was that a jab at my driving?”
Jack paused, staring me down. “Mentally review my comment and see if there is an insult there.”
I frowned, replying his words.
Chiara, I have been observing your driving habits for the past year. I assure you, I understand all the rules and mechanics of it.
On the surface, they seemed . . . okay. Maybe. Was this some sort of test? Was he training me to see insults? Or helping me to not see them?
My frown deepened.
“There’s no insult there,” he helped me along.
“See. This is what I mean.” I poked his chest. “I gotta stop doing this.”
He winced. “Ribs. Chest wound.”
Grrrr.
“Jack, I’m a horrid, awful girlfriend. This is what I’m talking about. I take a good thing and totally mess it up by being obnoxious and paranoid.”
“Well, it’s too late now. You’re mine. No take backs.” He threw a heavy arm around my shoulder. “You’ll just have to make it up to me.” His expression was tender and sorrowful and completely, utterly insincere.
My eyes narrowed.
“Now you have to let me drive.”
My eyes went full-on glare. I pinched his waist.
He yelped and stepped back. “Ribs.”
“Nu-uh. Not this time. Get in.” I climbed into my car before he could nab me again. Jack piled into the passenger side, his long legs barely fitting, even with the seat pushed all the way back.
He gave me his best blue-eyed, puppy dog look. Drat him.
“We’ll compromise.” I caved. “I’ll let you drive once we get past Empoli.”
Jack beamed.
On the way, we argued over which Marvel superhero was the best. (For the record, it’s Ironman, no matter what Jack said about Spiderman. Snark wins every time.) And then we moved on to research preservation methods for fragile Greco-Roman artifacts.
True to my word, I did pull over in the retail park in Empoli and swapped seats with Jack.
True to his word, he drove perfectly.
We were belting out the Hamilton soundtrack as we pulled into an office building on the outskirts of Pisa.
We were doing this, Jack and I. We were committed and in this together.
That’s what romantic love was, I realized. Two imperfect people embracing an imperfect life and their imperfect selves and somehow through it all . . . creating perfection.
I could take this next step. I loved Jack and I wanted to be the best me I could be for him.
“Where are we?” Jack killed the engine, surveying the building.
“Dr. Cacciatore’s office.”
Jack’s face was comical confusion.
“She’s a therapist and counselor. I called and made an appointment a couple days ago.”
Comprehension dawned on his face, spreading like the most brilliant sunrise.
“Ah.” His entire expression softened.
He leaned across the center console and kissed me. Hard. Decisive. Thoroughly.
“I love you, Jack Knight-Snow.”
“I love you, Chiara D’Angelo.” Words so fierce.
I held out my hand to him. “Ready?”
“For a life with you?” He took my hand and lifted my fingers to his mouth. An old-world courtly gesture. “Always.”