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“Be my guest.”
His touch was gently inquisitive but the second his fingers brushed her skin she winced. He felt her foot in an inquiry that was surprisingly informed. “You know what you’re doing.”
His eyes flashed to hers, concealing something. She didn’t know what, but she felt him holding back very intentionally. “It’s not my first ankle injury.”
“Yours, or someone else’s?”
“Does it matter?”
She flinched a little at his tone, and saw the way his lips creased in a frown that might have encompassed an apology.
“It’s a bad sprain.”
She nodded. “That’s what I think, too.” She paused. “I should have jumped towards you.”
His eyes met hers and something sparked in her chest. She stared at him, and he stared at her, and it was as if the whole world started spinning in the wrong direction. She was giddy and dizzy and totally off kilter.
“Dante—,” his name hung in the air between them. Somehow, just speaking it was so intimate, so personal. She swallowed with difficulty; her mouth was dry.
“Are you hungry?” His voice was thick and hoarse, his accent thick.
“I’m—,” she was surprised to realise she was. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Disapproval flashed on his face. “Why not?” It was as if he couldn’t contemplate such a thing.
“I’ve been walking.”
“All day?”
She shrugged. “Pretty much.”
He stood up then, and she was both glad for his absence and simultaneously made instantly lonely by it.
“I will make something. Stay here.”
She pulled a face. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”
His eyes latched to hers and she felt a slick of fear. Not her fear. His.
What was he afraid of? That she might be an axe murderer masquerading as an injured passerby to mug him? It was so preposterous she almost burst out laughing, but Dante’s expression was such a thunder clap, she could only sit there and stare right back at him.
“Dinner,” he said, after a beat, nodding, seeking resolution. “I’ll be right back.”
She watched him retreat, and silently, every fibre of her body implored him to turn back and say something, but he didn’t.
Her first thought, with Dante in the kitchen, was of her brothers. She checked in with them every night, and this would be the first time she’d missed doing that. It weighed heavily on her heart to know that they’d notice, and might even worry about her. But there was nothing for it. Until she could get back to town and have her cell phone replaced, she was completely in the dark. It was a necessary evil, but she didn’t relish the lack of communication.
Dante returned after a few minutes with two enormous bowls of pasta. Despite being hungry, there was no way Georgia would be able to get through even a third of what he’d brought. She murmured her thanks when he passed her the bowl, half expecting him to leave the room again, to eat elsewhere, but to Georgia’s surprise, he took up the seat across from her, legs spread wide, bowl cradled in one hand. He ate with a scowl, his gaze frequently landing on her face before slipping away, as if he wanted to pretend she wasn’t even there.
Georgia sighed.
“I have a strap,” he said, after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence. “For your ankle.”
“Oh.” She eyed the very swollen joint with pursed lips. “That will help, thanks. Would you happen to have any ibuprofen?”
“Of course. I should have thought of it.”
She shook her head. “Nonsense. You’ve done more than enough.”
