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)
When he glances up and sees me?
He does a double take. Stops speaking.
Of course he does.
My dress is fire-engine red.
Our eyes meet for maybe half a second. Maybe less.
Long enough for my pulse to spike.
I drop my gaze like it burned me, adjusting the strap of my purse like it needs attention, like he didn’t just look at me like I’d ruined his concentration.
I keep walking.
One foot in front of the other. Smooth. Controlled. Totally unaffected.
Except I can feel him watching me, heat crawling up the back of my neck like it has a destination.
“Hello,” he says politely. “Good evening.”
His voice is low. Calm.
“Good evening,” I echo, sizing him up.
His eyes soften. “Didn’t mean to stop you. Looked like you were on a mission.”
“I am,” I say, tightening my grip on my clutch. “A mission that involves Spanx and the women’s restroom.”
That earns me a smile. Small, amused, and somehow not condescending. “Say no more.”
I nod.
And honestly, I would stop to chat—but I have to pee like a racehorse and if I don’t keep going, I may pee my pants. Lord knows it’s going to take me a full minute to get out of these shapewear contraptions, which are torture.
My heels click against the tile as I disappear into the women’s restroom, the heavy door swinging closed behind me; I let out a breath, gripping the cool edge of the marble counter as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
What the hell was that?
I lift my gaze and study my reflection.
Cheeks flushed. Eyes wide. Lip gloss intact.
I look startled?
“Get it together. He wasn’t even flirting!” I dab at my skin with a thin rice sheet from my purse, watching through the mirror for anyone who may come out of a bathroom stall.
I’m shiny and slightly sweaty.
Ew.
I chuck the rice sheet into the trash, take one more steadying breath, and march into the toilet stall. Pee.
Struggle to breathe.
Pee more.
Then begin the battle of the dress. It takes a full ninety seconds and two awkward squats to wrestle the fabric back into place.
“Whoever designed this thing must have hated women.” I struggle to pull my dress down and back into place.
“Okay,” I whisper to my reflection. “Act normal.”
And then I pull open the door.
The second I step into the hallway, my eyes snag on the same spot I left him—and yep.
He’s still there.
Leaning against the opposite wall, he’s alone this time. Phone in hand, his thumb seems to be scrolling over the screen as if he were killing time and doesn’t want to return to the ballroom, either.
Our eyes meet again, and for half a second, neither of us moves.
Then he straightens. “Everything go okay?”
“Uh—yes. Very successful. Thanks for asking,” I say a bit too brightly. Thanks? Was that a stupid thing to say?
Ugh!
“I’m not lurking out here to be a creep.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I needed a breather.”
I nod. “Same.”
Another beat.
And then, like he suddenly realizes something: “I’m Luca, by the way.”
I know. I take his hand—firm grip, warm palm, a little rough—and offer a small, polite nod.
“Nova.”
He clears his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing. “That’s a cool name,” he says, almost as if he gave the comment no thought and just blurted it out.
“Thanks,” I reply, a little breathless. “I was born with it.”
Stupid, stupid, STUPID! What a dumb thing to say!
He chuckles.
“I figured,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant I think it’s beautiful.”
Luca groans, flustered.
He’s flustered.
By me!
That makes two of us.
I let out a soft laugh, and his shoulders relax a little. “So, Luca— who do you play for?”
He pauses, like he’s deciding how honest to be. “Right now?” Shrug. “Technically no one. Draft is in a few months.”
“Ah,” I say, biting back a smile. “So you’re a free agent.”
I swear, he blushes. “For now.”
I nod, impressed, even though I already know all of this information. Gio’s mentioned him when we sat down—always with skepticism in his voice he saves for players with big potential and reputations he hasn’t decided on yet.
“So I’m talking to an unclaimed future pro,” I say, flashing my best smile and fluttering my lashes just enough to mess with him.
Luca looks momentarily stunned. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but then just—doesn’t.
It’s adorable.
So adorable, I blush, feeling it from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair—which is pale blonde at the moment. Which means that I probably look like a tomato.
Kill me.
Luca clears his throat, and it’s the most charmingly awkward sound I’ve ever heard. “Uh. So. Are you enjoying the awards?”
Oh no.
He’s resorted to small talk.
The most beautiful man alive is nervous and asking me if I’m enjoying an awards show like we’re at a middle school dance.
I want to die.
“Not really, if I’m being honest. I’m only here because my brother’s girlfriend dumped him three days ago.”