Summer of Love Marie Ferrarella (easy books to read in english TXT) 📖

“Yes. She was happy. Always. Which is why it’s so hard to see her like this and not know how to help her.”

“I’m sure it is.” He took another sip of his coffee, wishing he hadn’t added quite so much sugar.

“Did she talk at all today?” Jessi tucked her legs up under her, smoothing her hemline to cover her bare knees.

“She shared a little about what her days in captivity had been like. What she did to pass the time.”

“You said on the phone there weren’t any breakthroughs. You don’t consider that one?”

That was a tricky question to answer. Because while it was technically more than Chelsea had told him in the past, she’d spoken without emotion, as if she were using the information itself as one more blockade against questions that might venture too close to painful subjects. Like that macabre tissue paper baby she kept in her nightstand.

“It does help to know a little about what went on. But she’s not talking about her captors or about her rescue. Just about what she did. Reciting her ABCs and having conversations inside her head.”

Jessi slumped. “It’s been almost two and a half months.”

He didn’t mention that sometimes the effects of PTSD lasted a lifetime. His dad, instead of getting better, had slowly sunk into a pit filled with alcohol, drawing away from those he’d known and loved. And when he or his mom had tried to force the issue … Yeah, that was something he didn’t want to talk to Jessi about.

“I know it seems like forever. But she was held for four months. It takes time. Sometimes lots of it.”

She stared down at her cup for several long seconds before glancing up with eyes that held a wealth of pain. “It sounds so terrible for me to say this out loud, but I’m afraid to have her home again. Afraid the next time she tries something I won’t get there in time to stop her.” Clint set his coffee cup down on a tray that was perched on an ottoman between the two seating areas. He went over to sit beside her, setting her coffee aside as he draped his arm around her shoulder and drew her close. “Jess, you’re dealing with some aftereffects yourself. Maybe you should talk to someone.”

She lifted her head. “I’m talking to you.”

“I mean someone objective.” The second the words came out of his mouth he wished he could haul them back and swallow them whole. He tried to clarify his meaning. “It would be a conflict of interest for me to treat you both.”

He realized that explanation wasn’t any better when she tried to pull away from him. He squeezed slightly, keeping her where she was. “I’m not explaining myself very well.” Hell, some psychiatrist he was. He couldn’t even have a coherent conversation with this woman.

“No, it’s okay.” She relaxed, and her arm snaked around his waist with a sigh. “I’m being overly sensitive.”

No, she wasn’t. And Clint was drawing closer and closer to a line he’d sworn he wasn’t going to cross with her. But with her head against his chest and her hand curled around his side, her scent surrounded him. She surrounded him.

Her fingers went to his left hand and her head lifted slightly, staring at something. Then she touched his damaged finger. She bent a little closer. “What happened?”

Damn. He tried to laugh it off. “An old war wound.”

“You never mentioned going to war.”

He hadn’t. That particular war had been fought here on American soil. Not even his father had known what he’d done to his son with that hard, angry squeeze.

“I was making a joke. A bad one.” He shrugged. “It’s not important.”

Her head went back to his chest, but her finger continued to stroke his crooked pinkie, the sensation strangely intimate and disturbing on a level that was primal.

He needed to get up and move before either of them did something they would regret.

Then she lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his finger, the delicate touch ramming through his chest and driving the air from his lungs.

Her tongue trailed across the skin, and his hand tightened slightly on her shoulder. He wasn’t sure whether or not it was in warning. And if it was, was he warning her not to stop? Or not to continue? His body responded to the former, rejecting the latter. Because he did want her to continue. To keep on kissing him with those featherlight brushes. And not just there. Everywhere.

“Jess,” he murmured. “I think I should move back to the other seat.”

She stopped, still holding his hand. “Does that mean you’re going to?” Her whispered words were as much a caress as her touch had been.

Heat swirled through him.

“Not if you keep talking to me in that tone of voice.”

She let go of his hand and moved hers a little bit higher, smoothing over his biceps until her palm rested on his shoulder. And when she looked up at him, he was lost.

Decision made.

He was going to kiss her. Just like she’d kissed him. Softly. Gently. And with just enough contact to drive her wild.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IT WAS AS if the past twenty-two years had rewound themselves.

The second his lips touched hers, Jessi was back by the creek, her only worries her father’s strict rules and getting to school on time. And it felt so good. So carefree.

If only she’d known how free she’d been back then.

But she could experience it again. With the same man. Just for a little while.

She’d always thought Clint had been invincible all those years ago. But her mom’s comment about his father and discovering that crooked little finger showed her he wasn’t. He was just as human as she was. Back then … and maybe even now.

Jessi threaded her fingers through his hair, hearing Clint’s low groan as he moved to deepen the kiss, shifting her until she lay half across his lap, one of his hands beneath her shoulders,