Who are you?” I whispered, leaning forward and reaching across the table to touch his sternly gorgeous face, almost afraid he’d disappear beneath my fingertips. “The face of an angel, the soul of a poet, and the fists of a fighter. I don’t know how to understand you, Mickey.”Mickey caught my hand with his and then turned his head and pressed a soft kiss in my palm. “I’m not the only poet at this table.
I feel the same way. It doesn't make sense, and I can't understand it, but maybe emotions aren't supposed to make sense," I finally said.One the other line, Mickey blew out a deep breath."Tomorrow, then.""Tomorrow," I agreed.Just when I thought he'd hung up, I heard his voice again. "Victoria? Take care of yourself, until I'm with you to do it.