Gladly Beyond (31 page)

And
why
did I always have to second guess people’s actions?!

Anger washed me. Suddenly, I hated all this . . .
fear
.

How
dare
they!

How dare those awful men in my past destroy my sense of trust! Defraud me of a future with a guy like Dante D’Angelo.

My eyes stung.
Blink, blink, blink.

I deserved better than this emotional . . . half-life. I deserved to
live
.

And
just like that
—

I was done.

Something snapped.

If I was ever going to get over my fears, I needed to let go. I intellectually had known that.

But in that moment, I viscerally
felt
it.

I
had
to trust Dante.

Yes, the panic was still there, hovering at the edges, waiting to pounce.

But my desire to move beyond the trauma of my past was greater. I swallowed back the anxiety.

I won’t fear love . . .

I would hate myself forever if I walked away from Dante right now. Big scary L-word or not . . .

Clenching my jaw, I swiped to the camera on my phone. Framed my face. Took a selfie.

I looked at the picture.

My head nestled into the pillows on my bed, staring determinedly at the camera.

And there
he
was too.

Dante as Ethan, tucked up against me. His cheek pressed into mine, nose slightly turned toward my face . . . a smile on his lips. As if he were about to kiss me.

It was a photo of such intimacy, such adoration . . .

I could practically feel Caro hovering in the background of my mind, whispering, begging me to trust this man as she did.

My past-life self—my soul—had loved this man. Perhaps even spent life after life with him.

How could I not at least give Dante a chance?

Longing flooded. I wanted to
know
him. Understand him. To sink down, down, down into . . .
us
.

I comprehended, as I never had before—

Trust is a decision. A commitment. An act of faith.

Sometimes you just have to step off the cliff, fight the panic and
believe
that you will land okay.

I won’t fear love . . .

I opened my text messages. Attached the photo I had just taken.

I trust you. I really do.

His reply came almost instantly.

Thanks, Claire. I won’t let you down, babe. ;)

Choosing to ignore the word ‘babe.’ How’s about you invite me to lunch tomorrow and we hit the city afterwards?

Selfie rampage?

Yep. Start practicing your frat-girl, pouty-lip face.

Twenty-Four

Dante

T
here he is.”

I leaned over Claire’s shoulder as she pointed to the background of the selfie she had just taken.

Sure enough. Ethan stood at the base of the
David
in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, shoulder casually leaning into the enormous pedestal, head turned to his right.

“That’s the same place he was in the old photo with me and Grammy,” Claire continued.

“He doesn’t seem to be looking at you this time,” I said.

“Yeah. So probably no regression there.”

I pressed my chest into her back, ostensibly to get a closer look at the photo, ignoring the tourists swirling around us in the enormous Piazza della Signoria.

Breathing in the scent of her . . . lavender and herbs. Claire fit against me like a glove. Like my entire body had been made just to hold her.

She didn’t make a comment about her space bubble or pull away.
That
was the most significant part. She didn’t relax into me either, but I was no longer a pariah.

“Now what?” Claire turned her head toward me, her nose practically touching my bent cheek. I felt her exhale . . . a puff of air blowing across my face.

Madonna mia.

You know how it goes. When you like someone . . . really, really like someone . . . the slightest touch burns. Every point of contact—no matter how small—sizzles with heat and electricity.

Claire was a live wire.

I took a step back before I did something to break her fragile trust.

Her text the night before had floored me. Honestly, I thought it would take a lot longer for her to reach this point. I had been prepared to wait her out, for as long as it took.

So even though every last part of me wanted to gather her in my arms and bury my face in her hair and let us be . . .
us
, I held myself firmly back.

“What about this?” Claire turned away from me and aimed another selfie at the Loggia dei Lanzi to the right of the Palazzo Vecchio. Snapped a photo.

I maneuvered to her side as she swiped to the image, pressing into her upper arm before I thought the better of it. I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I was stupid-crazy for her.

We both studied the image. The extravagant loggia, tourists sitting on the steps up to it. The tops of ancient sculptures underneath it.

“No Ethan.” She lifted her head. “Where should we go next?”

Claire scanned the piazza, which meant I saw the incoming text message before she did.

I see you. I hate that big, dark-haired idiot standing so close. Like he wants to eat you up. When will you stop being such a slut?

I hissed. Claire looked back to her phone, saw the text and froze. I felt, more than heard, her swallow. She shot me a glance and then turned, stuffing her phone in her jeans pocket.

Or, at least, tried to. Her hand was trembling too badly to get the phone to fit.

“Hey, hey—”

I took her phone from her, shoving it into my own pocket. Grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. She was white as marble, the fear in her eyes shouting at me.

“It-it’s nothing. Just nothing.” Shaking her head, over and over.

“It’s not nothing. Who is it? Who’s texting you crap like that?”

She was frozen, nostrils flaring wide.

“Talk to me. Who is it? Pierce?”

She finally stirred.

“No, no,” she said. “I doubt Pierce could be this focused. It’s just some cyber stalker.” She did her signature lip-bite thing, blue eyes staring at my shirt. Chest heaving. “So many came out of the woodwork after that video. I’ve changed my phone number. I block every text . . . nothing seems to deter them. It’s really no big deal.”

Was she freaking kidding me? She was seconds from a full-blown panic attack.

“Forgive me, but this
is
a big deal. I don’t like the thought of anyone harassing you—”

Without thinking, I gathered her into my arms. Crushing her to me . . . as if my arms alone could keep the world away. She trembled, hands trapped against my chest. I rubbed her back.

“It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe with me. I will pulverize anyone who tries to get to you . . .”

I was babbling like . . . well, like a big idiot.

“How can they be here?” Claire shook her head, voice muffled against my shoulder. “They’re not supposed to actually
be
here. That was the only thing keeping me sane. Assuming they were far away and couldn’t harm me. But if they’re actually here, watching us—”

“No one’s going to hurt you, babe. Not with me around.”

She leaned against me. Upright. Stiff.

And then . . . little by little, she relaxed.

First her head. Then her shoulders. Her knees followed.

Finally (hallelujah) actually cuddling her weight into mine . . .

Unconsciously, my arms tightened.

She moved her hands and wrapped them around my waist. Tentatively to start, but then holding on with a fierce grip. Fisting her hands into my t-shirt in the middle of my back, pressing herself that much closer. Holding me as tight as I was holding her.

I closed my eyes. All the air in my body swooshed out.

My throat constricted. That she would trust me enough to let me hold her like this . . . to accept my support . . .

Even more, to return it.

I slid one hand firmly into her hair, the other bracketed her ribcage.

Damn if she didn’t feel perfect in my arms. Tall enough that I didn’t have to hunch to hold her. Just the right amount of curve.

Finally, I did what I longed to do—I buried my nose in the hair next to her ear, drawing Claire-scented air back into my lungs. Drowning in her.

It was like every last piece of me had been made for just this. To hold Claire Raythorn. To be her rock in the storm. To destroy anyone and everyone who tried to hurt her.

I had
never
felt like this before.

I wanted to describe it as
possessive
. . . but possessiveness implied a sense of jealousy, a distrustful greediness. And that wasn’t it.

No . . . the word I kept landing on was
bramare
.

A yearning. An ache. Hunger. To want something with such fierceness . . .

Ho bramato per noi.

I longed for us. Craved it.

And so I held her, a motionless island in the bustling crowd.

“They’re just words.” Her shaking subsided. “Words can only hurt me if I allow them to.”

“Has this person threatened you physically?”

“No. They just say creepy, nasty things.”

“Have you talked to the police about this?”

She nodded. “Because the texts have never been physically threatening, there’s nothing they can do. And even if they
were
threatening, tracking down a cyber stalker is almost impossible.”

I hated the truth in her words. Her helplessness.

The crap this woman had been through . . .

“Damn cyber bullies.”

“I know. I just need to not let it affect me.”

“It’s hard not to.”

“But it’s what they want. Whoever is sending these
wants
me to be afraid.” She pushed away from me. I instantly let her go. “And I refuse.”

She jutted her chin, defiant. “My fifth nanny, Mrs. Evans-Sharp, always told me to keep a stiff upper lip—”

“Your
fifth
nanny?”

“She was very British—”

“I was more focused on the number five and the word
nanny
rather than her nationality. You had five nannies?”

“Well, I prefer the term
nanny
over random-person-who-was-poorly-paid-to-keep-me-out-of-my-parents’-hair.”

“Wait—was this the same nanny who taught you how to truss a kidnap victim?”

“Still smarting over that, are you?”

“Just trying to understand the colorful assortment of people who raised you.”

She gave a small laugh. It didn’t quite touch her eyes, but it was a nudge in the right direction.

“You have
no
idea.” She paused. Lifted her gaze to mine. Those eyes so impossibly blue. “Thank you. Just . . . thank you.”

I knew what she meant.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for fighting this with me.

“Here. Turn this way.” I walked around her, pulling out my own phone. She swiveled with me, until her back was to the far left end of the piazza where it led into Via dei Magazzini.

“What?”

I framed her in my phone camera. “I don’t think it matters who takes the photo.”

“True. I just have to be in it.”

And bonus—I would have images of her.

“You are fabulous. A tigress.
Rawr.
”

She sank a hand on her hip. “Seriously?”

“You’re not roaring.”

She smiled, broad and genuine, that dimple on her upper cheek popping. Sunlight tangled in her blond hair.

I took the photo.

“Wait.” I reframed the image. “Let me get one with the background this time. You distracted me.”

That got me a second smile. I snapped another photo.

I swiped to the image and studied it. Claire came around, pressing into
my
arm, mimicking my posture from earlier. I tried (unsuccessfully) to contain a silly-happy grin.

“There.” Claire pointed at the image. “He’s way back there, right at the entrance to that street.”

Sure enough. There was Ethan, top hat popping above tourist’s heads near Via dei Magazzini.

I glanced at her, still pressed against my side.

“You’re in my bubble,” I said.

She lifted her head. Studied our bodies. And then . . . grinned. Shy. Sweet.

“So I am.” Completely unrepentant.

I’m pretty sure my eyes went lovestruck glazed.

I slid my phone into my pocket and gave her own phone back. She tucked it away.

I nodded my head toward the opposite end of the huge piazza.

“Shall we?” I held out my hand to her.

She stared at it. “You’re pushing your luck.”

“I know.”

A beat. And then she gave me a welcoming smile and slid her hand into mine. Fine-boned. Soft and warm.

I laced our fingers together.

She was going to be
very
lucky if she got that hand back anytime soon.

A group of rowdy teenagers, chattering in German, swarmed around us. Claire pressed closer to me. One of the teens did a double and then a triple-take, staring at her. He nudged a friend who whirled to look at us.