Page 66 of The Sweet Spot

It’s a complete feast of the senses: exquisite tastes and heavenly smells, shared smiles and laughs, a steady stream of conversation that peels back layer after layer of who he is. Of who I am. It feels like foreplay. Especially when our eyes meet and hold, like they’re having another conversation all on their own.

It’s always felt like foreplay with him.

“This is going to sound really douchey,” Luca begins, as we walk out to his car after dinner. “But you have gorgeous eyes.”

“That’s not douchey.” I peek up at him. “And thanks. I think maybe I got them from my dad.”

“Maybe?” He huffs softly. “What do his look like?”

“They’re green.” I swallow, my heart thumping oddly. “I…haven’t known him very long. I just met him for the first time.”

Luca slides his arm around me, holding me close as we walk. He smells so good, like musk and spice and fresh laundry, reminding me of the day we talked on the beach. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. He’s uh, coming back for my birthday.”

We stop at Luca’s car. “Yeah? You excited, or nervous, or…?”

“Both. All of it.”

His eyes search mine. He’s curious.

“It’s kind of a long story. I’ll tell you all about it, but not here.” I can’t quite see his face because of the brightness of the streetlamp behind him, but he runs his hand down my arm and nods.

“For sure.” Closing my door, he crosses to his side and slides in. Moments later, the heat is on and we’re pulling out of the lot. “You want to come back to the house? Kellan just texted, said they finished early.”

“Aww, did he do that just for you?” I ask. Luca had mentioned Kellan’s group project earlier, promising he’d bring me to the house another time.

“Probably.” Luca nods, running his hand over the stubble on his chin. He’s not as scruffy as he was the day we met or as clean cut as he was on New Year’s. I’m not sure which I prefer—he wears it all pretty well. “Kellan’s good people.”

“That, he is,” I say, thinking of how highly Dallas always spoke of his older brother. “I’d love to come over.”

“We can get a six pack on the way.” His gaze smolders devilishly. “Since we had to keep it PG at dinner.”

We stop at a little hole in the wall that specializes in local beers, then head over to his place. It’s in an older neighborhood where most of the homes are original Victorians.

“Beach Hill?” I whistle, long and low. “Nice.”

“Kellan’s loaded.” He shrugs. “He wanted to stay here when we left campus, and his parents didn’t mind paying the lion’s share of the rent.”

“So lucky! I love this neighborhood.” I look wistfully out the window, my gaze snagging on several dreamy houses I grew up admiring. “It’s like being in another time.”

“I never thought about it like that, but you’re right,” he agrees, pulling into a driveway. It’s hard to see in the dark, but I think the house might be light purple. “My mother loves the Victorians in San Francisco…she took a thousand pictures when we moved into this place.”

“Mine would, too.” I try to recall the Instagram photos I saw of Luca’s mom. Maybe I should ask to see another picture.

Walking quietly along the alley between two houses, we let ourselves in through a small, creaky gate and into a tiny, lush backyard. Lights glow from the first floor, but Luca leads me to an outdoor staircase leading up. “You can get to my room through the front door, but this is more private,” he explains, hand on the small of my back as he ushers me ahead.

“This is nice,” I say, admiring the deck as Luca unlocks the door. “Do you hang out here a lot?”

“For sure, especially when it’s sunny.”

Inside, his room is simple and cozy, two surfboards hanging along one wall. Taking a pair of bottles off the six pack, he stows the rest in the fridge.

“Did you grow up surfing, or was it something you got into when you moved here?”

“I’ve loved it since I was a kid. We hit up the beach as much as we could when I was younger, but I definitely surfed more when I got to Santa Cruz.” He kicks his shoes off. “It was great for the first couple years, but these days I’m just too busy. I don’t get out as much as I’d like to.”

Leaving my purse and boots by the door, I wander around the room, admiring the black and white photographs of historical Santa Cruz. “These are great,” I breathe, superimposing what I know of these locations over the images in the photographs. “It’s trippy to watch a city evolve like this.”

---