Page 115 of Chasing Caine
“That’s two days away.”
“I need buffer time in case I miss a connection or something.”
I pulled out my phone and selected a contact. “My travel agent will handle everything. Trust me, if anything goes wrong with your flights, she’ll have you taken care of. If you’re flexible enough—” I cocked an eyebrow, which was met with a feigned scowl. “She can work miracles. And besides, the stitches on your forehead and bandaged ankle will get you sympathy and help from everyone at the airport.”
She lay back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling while I spoke with the agent, and gestured vaguely to her backpack when I asked for her flight details. It was a testament to her injuries that she didn’t argue further.
A knock came at the door as I hung up, and I crossed the room to let Mario in. He carried a tray with cappuccino and laden with cornetti. “How’s the patient feeling?”
“Like a prisoner.” She pouted, but gave him a private smile when she thought I was not paying attention. “He canceled my flight home.”
“It’s being changed, not canceled,” I said.
Mario sat on the side of the bed, placing the tray next to her. He was uncharacteristically serious. “That’s the smart plan. We were worried about you yesterday.”
She eased up and grabbed a cup. “Yeah.”
“And don’t tell anyone I made you cappuccino at noon.” He patted her knee and stood, heading for the door. “I’d be thrown out of the country.”
I finished with a few additional texts with my agent and sat back down next to Samantha. “A service will pick you up at the airport in Lansing and—”
“My motorcycle’s at the airport in Detroit. I’m good.”
“Seriously?” I looked pointedly along the leg she had stretched out in front of her. “I know you’re a risk taker, but that’s too much.”
She dropped her cup onto the tray, some of it spilling over the edge. Angry with me. But no, she leaned back slowly and closed her eyes, clasping her hands over her stomach. “You’re right. Every time I move too fast, I get the spins.”
I crawled the few feet across the bed and lay down next to her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “If it continues tomorrow—”
“I really can’t stay another day.”
“—then I’ll fly back with you and be sure you’re alright.”
The eyes fluttered open and she rolled her head slowly toward me. “You can’t leave your project.”
“Bella…” I kissed her cheek. “If you were shipping a priceless piece of art across the ocean, who would you entrust it to?”
Her eyes narrowed, but quickly released, no doubt pulling at the stitches on her forehead. They would cause a stir once she got home, not to mention the bruises covering her arms and legs. She attempted to brush the gash off, but it was nothing more than stubbornness.
“Exactly,” I said. “You would entrust it to no one but yourself. And I would do the same—”
“Don’t compare me to a piece of art.”
“Shall I instead compare thee to a—”
One hand flipped up to smack me gently. “Don’t go there, Ferraro.”
“Thou art more lovely and yet significantly less temperate than a summer’s day.”
She closed her eyes and chuckled, then grimaced.
“Head hurts?”
“Only when I laugh.”
“Mi dispiace, amore.” I interlaced my fingers with hers and held them tight to me.
“Never apologize for that.” She squeezed my hand. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”