Page 116 of My Pucking Crush

In the driver seat, I ask, “What’s the address to your house in East Hampton?”

“Just get on the expressway.”

With a tight jaw, I say, “Maybe we should just drive out to Orient and catch a ferry to New London. Sleep in Stamford tonight.”

Max’s gaze shoots to mine. “I... I want to show you my house.”

My hackles rise. “Does your house in the Hamptons have security?”

“It has an alarm.”

“Cameras?”

“No.”

“Fuck me,” I snap. “As your security expert, I suggest you get them. You can afford it.”

I see the vulnerability in his eyes, and while my anger seems aimed at his lack of security, I’m actually pissed that he didn’t stand up to those so-called friends.

Maxisthe client, so I begrudgingly comply. Like an idiot. He is going to see a different side of me in East Hampton.

SIXTY-THREE

Max

“Italian okay?” I ask Luca, who I’ve convinced we needed to stop for dinner. “I’m famished. This stretch of the North Fork has some really great family-owned restaurants. Quaint.”

“Fine,” he answers sharply.

I’ve been around this guy long enough now to know spur-of-the-moment stops throw him into a tailspin. When the season is over, if for some reason I want to make a go of this with Luca —Daniil— whoever the hell he is, this is a side of him I have to accept.

The dangerous man who will always consider first how to keep me safe. Only, I won’t be in an enemy’s scope forever. I hope he learns to dial his grumpy setting way down.

We stop to eat, neither of saying much. In fact, Luca doesn’t say anything at all. Just stares at me. Like he’s waiting formeto say something.

Honestly, my head is still messed up. I’m processing how my old friends reacted to Oliver being gay. The disgust in their eyes leveled me out. I know there are haters, but I hoped that close friends would accept you no matter what.

Sure, it’s naïve to think they still consider me a close friend. But Oliver? Fury storms through me as I stab a meatball.

“Problem?” Luca says, breaking the awkward silence.

“Nope.”

Outside the restaurant window, a bright lightflashes, momentarily illuminating the dimly lit restaurant. A collective gasp rings out. Luca hops out of his seat ready to throw himself on top of me, when a crack of thunder rattles the place.

The sonic-like boom is followed by a whoosh of heavy rain, and the windows look like we’re in a car wash.

“Aw, fuck,” I say and drag out my phone.

Luca’s hand sits in his suit jacket, clutched around his piece no doubt. “What?”

“These roads flood. We’ll miss our ferry to the south shore.”

“Then how do we get down there?” He sits back down.

I forget that he doesn’t know the topography of Eastern Long Island. The easiest way to get from the North Fork to the South Fork is through Shelter Island, via two short ferry rides. But with this weather and the likelihood that the roads to the ferries are flooded, services will be suspended.

“We have to drive back around.” And not until the rain stops.

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