““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.””
