Chiara
“You walk too fast,” Domenico muttered as we jogged down the stairs. “Are you going to abandon your poor, disabled husband?”
I rolled my eyes. “Poor? Disabled? Please.”
Two days.
Two ridiculous, chaotic, strangely perfect days after the charity event, and Domenico had taken me everywhere: skyline views, deep-dish pizza places, lakefront walks, late-night drives.
Even while pretending to be crippled, he made sure Chicago was fun. Although he complained the entire time, as if it were a burden.
But I loved it.
Sadly, we were leaving Chicago for New York. We had our lives and businesses to return to.
“You walk too fast,” Domenico said lazily.
“It’s not my fault you walk too slowly,” I shot back.
“It’s because you have short legs. You’re running instead of walking,” Domenico co
