Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I hesitate, unsure. “This isn’t a revenge plot, right?”
“Nah,” Gio says hastily. “Definitely not revenge.”
“I don’t want to hurt her,” I say.
“You won’t,” he promises. “We’re gonna be dramatic and see what the little brat does, eh? See how she reacts.”
That lands. Heavy. Real.
“Fine. But if this backfires, I’m blaming you.”
He claps his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Deal.”
33
nova
Luca is coming over and I am literally ill.
Sick to my stomach. Not metaphorically. Not vaguely nervous. I mean actual, full-body, cold-sweat dread runs through my veins.
I pace my apartment like a caged cheetah at the zoo, too keyed up to sit, too nauseous to eat.
The doorman said he’d buzz when Luca arrived, but when the knock comes directly at my door—with no warning—I straight up panic.
PANIC I SAY!
“Shit.” Deep breath in. “It’s fine. Just tell him how you feel.”
Deep breath out.
Smoothing my hands down the front of my pants, I check my reflection one last time in the mirror before pulling open the door with a fake smile already pasted on my face.
There he is…
Filling the doorway, Luca looks ridiculously delicious in a black Henley and jeans, his dark hair is a mess as if he got caught up in a windstorm on his way into the building and hadn’t bothered to fix it. He smells like soap. And sin.
And I missed it.
Holding a paper bag in one hand and a plastic-wrapped bundle in the other, he has a grin on his face that almost matches mine, except his seems genuine.
I glance down at the bundle.
Flowers.
Flowers?
I frown, confused, at the bold, beautiful bouquet of wildflowers and roses.
Why is he bringing me flowers? I’m the one who fucked up. I’m the one who—
He leans down, kissing me on the cheek, leaving me flustered and staring off after him as he heads to the kitchen. I can only trail along behind him.
“What on Earth is happening right now?” I hover near the edge of the island like an interloper in my own space. Which is RIDICULOUS.
Luca glances up, lifting a brow. “What do you mean?”
“What do I—” I blink, gesturing vaguely between us. “I’ve been spiraling for days, and you show up with dinner and flowers like we didn’t almost implode?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I figured one of us had to be the adult.”
My jaw drops. “You’re not mad anymore?”
Because the last I checked, he’d stormed out of the restaurant bar and was cold to me when I texted him, wanting to talk it through.
“Oh, I’m pissed,” he says cheerfully, pulling out takeout containers. “But I’d rather be fed and pissed than hungry and pissed. Bad combination. And if we’re gonna talk about what happened, I’d prefer to do it while I’m eating.”
He does? “You do?”
I stand staring, afraid to move.
Luca glances over his shoulder as he plates our food, that maddeningly calm smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I do.
He is being way too calm; I’m not sure I can trust it. He shouldn’t be this kind. This funny. This good. Not after what I did. Not after the way I handled everything with my brother, whom I haven’t spoken to since.
“You left me on read for two days!” I blurt out.
He shrugs. “That was me being mature and avoiding sending a text I’d regret.”
“Like what?” I inch forward, lured by the rich smell of ramen. “You wanted to tell me to suck it? ‘Nova, hope you choke on your guilt?'”
Luca lets out a low chuckle. “I would never tell a woman to suck it.” He pauses and winks. “Unless of course it’s a different context. One with less crying—and more nudity.”
I take the bowl, grateful for the distraction. The ramen smells incredible—spicy, hearty, and scrumptious—and I plop down on a barstool to share with him, half-hiding behind the noodles as I inhale the steam. “God, if you ever break up with me, please at least do it over ramen. I might survive.”
Luca glances over at me, arching his brows. “We’re dating now?”
“I—I…” I stammer. “That’s not what I meant.”
For a while, it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that’s filled with chewing and the clink of chopsticks. After a short while, Luca sets his bowl down, leans back on his stool, and hits me with the hard talk:
“You ready to talk about it?”
I freeze mid-bite, a noodle dangling from my lips, hanging limply like a lifeline.
I inhale it with a slurp.
“I—yeah.” I nod. “I guess.”
“You don’t have to give the perfect speech,” Luca adds, voice gentler now. “Just tell me what scares you.”
I push my bowl away, not so hungry anymore.
Wipe my palms on my thighs and exhale. “You.”
You scare me.
He blinks. “Me?”
“Yes. But not because you aren’t wonderful—but because I’m not.” I’m callous and flighty and clearly a flight risk. Can I be trusted?