Luca doesn’t say anything during the thirty-minute drive home, and I pretend I’m engrossed in watching the street through my window. When we arrive at the house, he opens my door for me and follows me inside and then up the two flights of stairs until we reach our bedrooms. Looks like we’re back to cold shoulders and silent treatment.
“I’m going to shower and then I’m coming to check your hand.” I say casually and go inside my room.
If the situation was different, I would have taken care of his cut before doing anything else, but I need time to decompress from the emotional overload before I can continue acting indifferent. Why is he making this so hard, damn it?
After I’m done with the shower, I dress in one of the short silky nightgowns that reveals my cleavage, and head through the d
