“You’re crying. What happened?” he asked, his voice lower now, stripped of everything but focus.
I opened my mouth, closed it again, and then noticed the bag in his hand.
He followed my gaze. “I came bearing gifts,” he said, as if that made his sudden appearance less alarming. “Chicago specialties. I was told this was a reasonable offering.”
Despite everything, my mouth twitched.
“What did you bring?”
“Garrett popcorn. Proper deep-dish pizza for later. And something with enough chocolate in it that I assumed it had to be useful in a crisis.”
That got a watery little laugh out of me before I could stop it.
“Very strategic.”
“I try.”
He stayed where he was on the threshold, though, and I noticed. He didn’t step inside until I moved back and said, “You can come in.”
He glanced around my apartment once as he entered, taking things in, before setting the bag on the kitchen counter. When he turned back to me, that same focus was there, quieter now but no less intent.
“Tell me.”
I wiped at my face with the heel of my hand and hated that my voice still sounded unsteady when I said, “My sister’s getting surgery.”
His expression softened, just slightly. “That sounds like good news.”
“It is.” I laughed once, humorlessly. “That’s the stupid part. It is good news. We’ve been trying to get this approved for years and now it finally is, but…” I pressed my lips together. “She wants me home for it and I just?—”
The rest stuck somewhere in my throat.
Pietro didn’t interrupt.
“My brother died in a car accident a few years ago,” I said at last, quieter now. “My sister survived, but she was badly hurt. She’s disabled now. The surgery could help, and I should be there, but I…” I looked away. “I can’t think about going back without feeling like I’m choking.”
He was silent for a beat, and when I finally forced myself to look at him again, there was nothing pitying in his face, only attention. Careful, controlled attention.
“If you need help getting there,” he said, “I have a plane.”
The words were so matter-of-fact that I blinked.
“You have a plane?”
One dark brow lifted.
I stared at him. “How rich are you?” Then I shook my head. “No, don’t answer that.”
“That is not the problem.”
“No,” I said, rubbing my hand over my forehead. “No. It isn't. Thank you, but that's not…it's not the getting there."
“What is it, then?”
I shook my head once. “I don’t know if I can explain it without sounding ridiculous.”
“Try.”
He said it so simply that I almost did.
