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)
It feels like it’s a massive space, thanks to the high ceilings.
“Back in the day, this building used to be a factory.” I begin walking toward the hallway as Luca trails along after me, head on a swivel. “It’s this room, plus a bedroom, office, and bathrooms.”
One full, one half.
Plenty for one person.
He peeks into my office, whistling again as he takes in the cozy atmosphere. The large reclaimed wood desk that I found at an estate sale, a tall bookshelf filled with novels, and the overstuffed couch. TV on the far wall. Fake olive tree I bought at Costco after seeing it on social media.
“I’m so into this.”
I don’t let him linger.
I keep walking, pointing out doors as I pass. “Guest bath,” I say, pointing to the next door. “Feel free to use it if you need to go. Bedroom is down here, but we’re not going there.”
“We’re not?” He raises a brow.
“Nope.” I spin on my heel, already halfway back to the kitchen. “Danger zone. Not taking chances.”
“Not taking chances on what?” he calls after my retreating figure, amusement dripping from his voice.
“On me,” I mutter under my breath, beelining it toward the island like it’s home base in a game of tag.
Horny.
Tag.
He laughs behind me.
“What I’m hearing is, you don’t think you can keep your hands to yourself and think we should hang out in the kitchen where it’s safe.”
“Exactly.” I reach for a sauté pan. “This is a sacred, safe space. Like church.”
“When is the last time you were in a church? Be honest.”
“Uh. Six months ago smart-ass, when my friend Bethany almost got married.”
Luca plucks an almond out of the bowl kept on the counter and pops it in his mouth, chewing. “How does one almost get married?”
“She changed her mind.”
Real talk: we all knew the engagement was doomed from the get-go. Emmit, her fiancé, was a finance bro with zero emotional range and an obsession with crypto currency. Total douche.
Never made time for her.
He was already married to his job.
“She got to the altar, stared at him for maybe five seconds, then just turned around and walked back down the aisle. No big scene, no meltdown. Just a power exit.”
Luca’s eyes widen. “She ghosted him at the altar?”
“In front of three hundred guests. I was in the second row with my jaw on the floor. It was incredible.” Admirable.
He is hanging on my every word. “What happened after?”
I shrug, taking the chicken out of the parchment paper. “She went on the honeymoon alone and slept with a few strangers, laid on the beach, got sunburnt. When she returned home, she was stronger and more fierce than ever.”
“Damn.”
“Everyone loves Bethany. We went to high school together and have been friends ever since. She's the most self-aware person I know. Like, she knew she couldn’t marry someone just because the invitations had been mailed out.”
“Sounds like an expensive mistake,” Luca says, rolling up his sleeves.
I hand him a lemon, a knife, and point to the cutting board. “Totally worth it. That’s the cost of freedom, baby.”
“My kind of girl.” He slices the lemon with slow, steady precision, as if he’s afraid to slice his finger off. “So…what’s next, Chef?”
I gesture toward the rosemary and olive oil. “Coat the chicken, season it, arrange it pretty in the pan. You can handle that, right?”
“If you say so,” he replies, brows furrowed in concentration as he drizzles olive oil with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.
I suppress a smile. “Relax. It’s dinner—not brain surgery.”
“Easy for you to say. You look like you know what you’re doing.” He glances at me sideways, worrying his bottom lip. “I can’t impress you if I hack off my damn fingers.”
He is so cute.
I love the fact he’s taking this seriously.
Luca is so hyper focused on perfectly placing each lemon slice into a roasting pan, I have to look away before I blurt something ridiculous like, I’m already impressed. I think you’re adorable.
Because the truth is…I already was.
It’s not the knife skills—or the way he listens when I explain things. It’s the way he already looks like he fits into my space; it already feels like we’ve done this dozens of times before. The flirting. The banter. I feel so…
Comfortable with him. He belongs in my kitchen, sleeves rolled up, slinging sarcastic comments by way of flirting.
It’s terrifying, actually.
I didn’t invite him up for this—for connection. For cozy domesticity. For intimacy.
I invited him up for fun. A distraction.
A lark.
So why does he already feel like a more?
My eyes stray to the spot below his ear where his hair is curling at the nape of his neck and I lick my lips.
God, Nova, get a grip.
He doesn’t even notice, which somehow makes it worse.
I’m not just attracted to him. I like watching him. I like the way he hums under his breath when he concentrates. The way he makes me laugh without trying and makes my stomach drop without touching me.