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"No one does," he said curtly. "All of this is your grandmother's idea. That's why you have no need—-"
She shook her head. "My grandmother had nothing to do with how you...helped me earlier. Or how you seemed to know what I need."
Ah.
"Giancarlo would not have liked it if I cried."
"Neither would I."
"No." Her swift agreement caught him off guard. "I rather thought you wouldn't have liked it either." And she proceeded to completely disarm him as a smile wobbled to her lips. "You remind me a lot of my brother."
"Then you're an idiot."
He was the Beast of New York while her oldest brother was, in many ways, a prince among thieves.
Giancarlo was a good man. And he was not.
Gazelle had to be stupid to think they were similar in any way, but telling her this didn't seem to have any effect on her.
"Maybe," she surprised him by agreeing once again.
But when he rose to his feet and offered to help her up, he heard her murmur, "Or it could be the other way around."
And it nearly had him tripping over his own feet.
What the hell?
Had his wife truly dared to say he could be the idiot between them?
Journal Entry
I take back every good thing I've said about Sarica.
Everything!
OUR famiglia's private jet has already been cleared to fly when we get to the airport, and from there, it's a ninety-minute flight back to New York. I'm worried it would get awkward between us, but my eyelids have already started drooping while I fasten my seatbelt.
When I wake up, it's to Lorenzo quietly saying we've arrived.
I sit up at once. "I'm sorry I fell asleep."
He only looks at me, and that look says everything.
Only an idiot would apologize for falling asleep.
I know I'm not imagining anything. I hear those words so clearly in my mind he might as well have said it out loud, and I feel offended and amused at the same time.
Everyone always talks about how the Beast of New York is terrifying, but why has no one ever talked about how annoying he is as well?
Also: why shouldn't I say sorry? It was our first flight as a married couple, and it was terribly inappropriate for me to fall asleep. Manners didn't just maketh a man, you know. It mattered to us women, too, and—-
What am I thinking about again?
I honestly can't remember. The moment Lorenzo reached for my hand, it was as if the heat of his touch had fried my brain cells, and all I could do was meekly follow his lead. I'm half-expecting him to lead us out of the airport, but instead, we end up boarding his chopper.
The next thirty minutes are a blur. The loud whip of the rotor blades doesn't just make conversation impossible. The way he's still holding my hand also consumes my every thought, and I'm unable to concentrate on anything else.
Is this normal?
