Page 21 of Power Pucking Play

"It was the truth," I say, crossing my arms.

"Your version of it, maybe."

We stand there for a moment, the tension between us palpable. But then Gio breaks into a grin, his dimples appearing. "Relax, doll. I'm just messing with you."

I sigh out loud. "Look, if we're going to do this, we need to at least try to get along. I'm willing to call a truce if you are."

Gio considers this for a moment, then nods. "Truce. But don't expect me to start sharing my deep, dark secrets or anything."

I roll my eyes. "Please. I've seen your rookie photos. There's nothing you could tell me that's more embarrassing than that haircut."

"Aww, now you're just upset that I likely won't consent to braiding each other's hair and talking about our crushes."

"Yeah. As if I'd let those caveman hands anywhere near my hair."

"You already have." He grins, and for a second, I'm reminded of why half the women in Chicago lose their minds over him.

I'm reminded of that night —the way his hands felt tangled in my hair, the heat of his body against mine.

The calculated roughness of his touch and the surprising softness of his lips...

It's easy to remember all those enticing qualities about Gio De Luca. Until the second he opens his mouth and ruins it all.

I shake my head, banishing the thought. "So, five a.m. next Monday?"

"Don't be late, Brookes. I won't wait for you" He shakes a few dark strands of hair out of his eyes and turns to leave.

"Wouldn't dream of it, De Luca," I call after him. "Someone's gotta make sure you don't trip over your own ego."

As I watch him leave, I wonder what I've gotten myself into.

Two weeks with Gio De Luca. Two weeks of pretending that night never happened.

Two weeks of trying to see past the bad boy image to the man underneath.

This is either going to be the best story of my career or it will kill me.

Guess I better stock up on coffee. And maybe a helmet.

Something tells me I'm gonna need both.

Chapter 7

Gio

It's four-fifty-five a.m., and I'm already on my third cup of espresso. Whoever said "the early bird gets the worm" clearly never had to deal with a nosy reporter first thing in the morning.

I hear a car pull up outside my house. Right on time. I gotta hand it to Brookes—she's punctual, I'll give her that.

The doorbell rings, and I pad over, still in my T-shirt and sweats from last night.

I take a deep breath before answering, mentally preparing myself for the onslaught of questions and cameras that are sure to follow.

But when I open the door, it's just Brookes standing there.

"Morning, sunshine," I drawl, leaning against the doorframe.

Lexi stands there, looking way too put together for this ungodly hour. "De Luca," she nods, her lips curving into a smirk.

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