I don’t know when they started but now that they have, there’s no stopping them. All the fear and frustration and sadness and desperation I’ve spent weeks pushing down, compartmentalizing into a tiny box in the back of my mind so I don’t go crazy from the stress of it all, have burst forth in an incontrovertibleflood.
Horrified, I glance up at Luca, prepared to apologize for my outburst, attempting to think up some way to explain myself without sounding like a total nutcase. The look in his eyes stopsmecold.
There’s a soft, sad expression on his face. Tenderness mixed with sympathy, tempered by that familiar Buchanan determination that says the rules governing average men don’t apply to him. It’s the kind of face you might make if you saw an animal hit by a car, bleeding out in the street… wanting to help but not knowing how, or whether any of your efforts would even matter, since the poor creature is already so far gone. And yet, attempting regardless, because you can’t leave it there to diealone.
I can read his eyes as clearly as abillboard.
Let mesaveyou.
Let me atleasttry.
Even if it’s a lostcause.
That expression, on Luca’s face? It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. More frightening than watching him pummel a man into mincemeat in a sweaty gym; infinitely more terrifying than the look of molten desire he gave me earlier, the one that told me in no uncertain terms what he’d like to do with me after catching sight of mylingerie.
“Luca…” My whisper is so fractured by mortification, I can barely form the word. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t about you. None of it.Ijust…”
“Shhh,” he breathes, giving a slight shake of his head. “Iknow.”
Moving slower than I’ve ever seen him, with a kind of measured deliberateness that makes my insides quake and my tears flow faster, he sets the dog down by our feet with a gentle plop, then takes three steps and closes the distance between us. I’m rooted to the ground, stiller than a statue as he reaches up with those big, powerful hands and slides them into the thick mane of hair at the nape ofmyneck.
Such a simple gesture, to stir so many complicated feelingsintolife.
I suck in a breath as soon as he touches me — I can’t help it. It’s an involuntary reaction to his hands on my skin, like sticking a fork inside a socket and getting zapped by an electrical charge that singes your verybones.
Eyes never shifting from mine, he exerts a tiny amount of pressure on my neck — not even enough to move me. A slight, tactile message that requires nowords.
Comehere.
His hold is so light, I could easily shrug him off if I wanted. I could fight his grip, could walk away, could throw up that wall I always erect between us, whenever things get too close for comfort, as I’ve always inthepast.
But I don’t have any fight leftinme.
I fall into his chest like water into paper; he absorbs me effortlessly, taking on my physical weight as well as the emotional burden of my meltdown. As soon as my forehead finds the hollow of his throat, where his pulse beats strong and steady as a battle drum, I feel myself let go. Of everything. All the rage and hopelessness. All the sleepless nights and quick-bitten fingernails. All the sold-off treasures and dead-endinterviews.
My defenses fall one by one, obliterated by the weight of my ownexhaustion.
Noretreat.
Norecalculation.
Noretaliation.
Nothing except complete, total,irreversible…
Surrender.
A white flag waving on the battlefield of myheart.
My tears flow into Luca’s shirt and his arms come up around me, holding me so close, so warm, sosafe, I can barely remember why I’m crying in the firstplace.
* * *
I’ve always hada certainreputation.
I think it comes with the territory — the rich family, the red hair, the unchangeable case of resting bitch face I’ve been plagued with sincekindergarten.
You get thepicture.