Page 461 of Rosetti Family New York
She's currently curled in my chair, wearing my Columbia sweatshirt and reading one of my medical journals with genuine interest.
"This is fascinating," she says, not looking up. "Did you really pioneer this technique for field surgery?"
"Where did you get that?"
"Your closet. You have exactly three personal items hidden in a box. This journal, a photo from medical school, and a medal I'm not going to ask about because you'll do that jaw thing where you pretend feelings don't exist."
She's mapped me as thoroughly as I've mapped the apartment's tactical weaknesses. Found every hidden piece, every carefully buried evidence of who I used to be.
"Stay out of my closet,” I bark, sounding exactly as gruff as I intend. That’s the last place I want her snooping around. To cover my rudeness I add, “You shouldn't go through my things."
"You shouldn't own so few things that snooping takes less than five minutes." She finally looks up, catches me staring. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Liar." She sets the journal aside, unfolds from the chair with feline grace. "You're thinking very loudly over there."
"I don't think loudly."
"You do. It's all 'must maintain distance' and 'can't let her get close' and 'oh no, she's using my coffee maker like a vase again.'" Her impression of my voice is terrible and oddly charming.
She stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can see gold flecks in her green eyes.
"I have a theory."
"About?"
"You." She stops just out of reach, but I can still feel her presence like electricity. "You use all these rules and protocolsand tactical assessments to keep people at distance. But really, you're terrified someone might actually see you."
"That's not—"
"I see you, Van." She takes another step closer. "I see how you check on me at night when you think I'm sleeping. How you bought the coffee I like even though you pretend you didn't. How your hands shake sometimes when you're trying not to feel things."
My jaw clenches. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know you haven't touched me since you saved me in the gallery’s parking garage." Her voice drops, softer but more dangerous. "I know you want to."
"Carmela."
"I know because I want you to." She closes the distance between us, her hand coming up to rest against my chest. "I'm not some fragile thing you'll break, Van. I'm not going to shatter if you—"
I kiss her.
It's not planned, not tactical, not controlled. One moment she's talking, the next my mouth is on hers, my hands in her hair, her back against the wall. She makes a surprised sound that transforms into something else, something that shoots straight through me.
She kisses like she does everything else—with her whole self, holding nothing back. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I'm lost in the taste of her, the feel of her, the way she responds like she's been waiting for this as long as I have.
When I pull back, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her eyes bright with triumph and desire.
"Finally," she whispers.
"This doesn't change anything," I manage, though my hands are still in her hair, my body still pressed against hers.
"It changes everything." She traces my jaw with her finger, the touch gentle over the scar. "You just don't realize it yet."
My phone rings—another update from Dom—and reality crashes back. I step away from her, from the warmth and possibility she represents.
"You should answer that," she says, but she's smiling. "I'll be here when you're done. I'm always here."
