Chapter 10
10
GIANNA
Silence stretches between us, long enough to make me think he won’t answer. But then he slides into the seat across from me, pinning me with those vivid blue eyes that have my heart fluttering. “I’m Michael Hart. Who are you?”
I drop my gaze to my hot chocolate again, needing a moment to breathe. Why is it that every time he looks at me like that, my brain turns to mush? His stares are too damn intense. I take a sip, hoping the warmth will help me pull myself together.
“I think you know exactly who I am,” I tell him, cradling the warm mug between my hands. The drink tastes exactly the way it would if I had made it myself. And that realization shifts something in my perception of him. Why would he put such effort into making it just right? Why me?
He smirks in response, and just like that, my moment of contemplation turns into suspicion. I narrow my eyes on him. “Why are you doing all this?” I blurt out, fingers tightening around the mug. “If my uncle sent you to find me, won’t you be in trouble for helping me?” Not only helping me but making sure I’m comfortable and fed.
He tilts his head, that devastating almost-smile playing at his lips. “If you’re trying to imply I should be scared of Aldo, don’t. There’s nothing he can do to me.”
The casual confidence in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. Is he serious? Most men tremble at my uncle’s name. But Michael doesn’t even blink or seem remotely concerned about the consequences. He’s either fearless or reckless—or both.
I frown, opening my mouth to pry a little deeper, but he beats me to it.
“Tell me, Gianna, why did you run away from home? And why were you working at that bar? You have a degree.”
I scoff, successfully distracted— damn him . “A degree without the experience recruiters want. Besides, that’s where Uncle Aldo would look for me first. He knows how much I wanted to be a practicing nurse.”
For a long moment, he simply studies me, and I brace myself, worried he’ll push for an answer to the first question. Why did I run? I’m not ready to talk about that. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to discuss the way I was treated in that house with a man as sure and confident in himself as Michael.
Thankfully, he lets it go.
“So, nursing, huh?” He smiles. “Why go down that route? Why not medical school?”
My hackles rise instantly. “And what’s wrong with being a nurse?”
His hands go up in surrender, though his grin only widens, the ring in his brow piercing glistening under the overhead lights as he tilts his head. “Easy there, Nightingale. It was an honest question, not a dig. I’ve got nothing but respect for nurses. They keep the hospital running, in my opinion.”
Oh. Well. That’s… not what I was expecting. At all.
I clear my throat and stare into my mug, watching a marshmallow slowly sink into the rich, swirling chocolate. Another sip buys time, helps me escape the keen intelligence gleaming in those baby blues. He’s too perceptive, and I hate that I just gave myself away like that.
“I take it nursing wasn’t your first choice?” The quiet observation hits too close, yanking my gaze back up. Why the hell does he have to be so discerning?
I shrug in response, hoping that will be the end of it.
It’s not.
One of his brows arches. “You were going to go into medicine, weren’t you?”
I tense.
“Why?” he presses. “And what changed your mind?”
“What’s with all the darned questions anyway?” I snap.
He only leans back, studying me like I’m some bug he has under a microscope.
I should get up. Walk away. Retreat to my room where those scrutinizing eyes can’t dissect me and my intentions. But I don’t. For some reason I stay seated, oddly reluctant to leave his presence. The man has me wrapped around his ringed pinkie without even trying.
His first question is as difficult to answer as the second, but I choose it as the lesser evil. Better than admitting why I let my dream get derailed. “I was in the car with my parents during the accident.” I pause, dropping my gaze to my hands, tracing the rim of my mug as I search for words. I’ve never talked to anyone about this before. How do I voice it without crumbling?
When I glance back up at Michael, he’s staring at me blankly—but not in a careless way. He knows. The cold police report version. That helps a little. I don’t have to explain every gruesome detail, just… the rest of it. “I must have blacked out when our driver lost control of the car. When I came to, all I heard was gunfire.” I let out a small, humorless laugh. “At first, I thought it was just thunder. But then I–”
I blinked my eyes open to see receding footsteps. Blood. Skull fragments where my dad’s head should have been. He had chosen to sit in the front with the driver—his secretary—so they could discuss business.
Beside me, my mom had a bullet hole in her chest. She was still alive… for a few seconds longer, at least. I stared at her in horror, and she smiled at me. Opened her mouth to say something.
But she never got the words out.
Shock sealed my throat. I couldn’t even scream, could only watch through tears of disbelief, praying it was just a nightmare.
I discreetly rub a finger under my eye, making sure no tears escape. The pain still feels as fresh as that night.
“Anyways, I wanted to become a doctor to help save people the way I couldn’t save my own family,” I finish wryly.
“You were just a child,” Michael points out gently. “There was nothing you could do.” Then, as if unsure what else to do, he reaches across the table and pats my hand—so awkwardly it gets a little giggle out of me, dispelling the last of the ache in my chest. He’s so shit at comforting someone.
“So,” he says after a moment, “what made you choose nursing instead?”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” His answering shrug makes me shake my head. “Has anyone ever told you you’re nosy?”
“Once or twice.” He runs a hand through the blonde strands falling into his face, looking completely unbothered.
I toss the rest of my drink back like a shot of alcohol, taking a few moments to chew my marshmallows and cookies before I give him my practiced answer. “Medical school takes six years. Too long for Uncle Aldo. And a medical doctor—too ambitious. What man would want to marry one?”
His brows pinch together as he watches me, and I hold my breath, bracing myself for what he might say. Maybe something like: Is your goal in life really about the man you’ll marry? That was my question to Uncle Aldo, and I got a slap in response.
“A strong, self-confident man who doesn’t need to put his wife down to feel masculine,” Michael says instead. “Besides, whose stupid idea is it that being a nurse isn’t an ambitious career?”
My heart does a little pitter-patter. Is he… angry ? “Uncle Aldo,” I answer.
“Fool,” he retorts, pushing back from the table.
I blink. He is angry. On my behalf.
No one has ever done that for me before.
I stare up at him, heart thudding in my throat. “Who are you, Michael Hart?” Awe creeps into my voice despite my best efforts, and he freezes mid-turn. “Why are you helping me?” Why are you on my side?
His face goes blank, eyes becoming as cold as a glacier. “And who says I’m helping you?”
But he can’t fool me with those tactics. I know defense mechanisms when I see them—I know because I have my own. I wave at the empty mug and the plate of food next to it. “That’s exactly what you’re doing, Michael.”
Rising slowly, I press on. “If you weren’t helping me, I’d be back in Manhattan right now. Back in my uncle’s clutches.”
He scoffs. “I’m no hero, Gianna, so don’t stare at me like that. I don’t do things unless I’m gaining something from them.”
Then he spins around and walks out.
I sink back into my chair and pull my plate closer, suddenly starving. As I eat, I try to decode him, to understand what he could possibly gain from all this.
But for the life of me, I can’t figure it out.
He claims he’s not a hero, insists he’s not helping me. And yet—he’s stocked his kitchen with me in mind. Filled his fridge with my favorite food. Made me hot chocolate just the way I like it...
Maybe I’m reading too much into his actions because nobody has ever been nice to me before. Maybe he really does have an ulterior motive.
But as I savor another bite of perfectly prepared food, I realize… I don’t care what that is anymore.
He can have his motives—as long as he keeps being nice to me and being on my side.
But if there’s anything I’ve learned in this life, it’s that human emotions are as fickle as candlelight on a windy night. They can flicker out or burn steady—their fate uncertain unless helped along.
What if I helped Michael along into falling for me?
After all, if this is him not helping me, him not being on my side, then how would he be when he’s actually in love with me and wants the best for me?
A slow smile curls my lips as I scoop up another bite of rice. For the first time since I ran from Uncle Aldo’s house, I feel something dangerous and warm unfurl in my chest.
Hope.