Page 53 of The Sweet Spot

She clasps her hands demurely. “Take it down.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve never seen it before, and I’d like to.” Her cheeks go full red. It’s adorable, how nervous this makes her. “For the pictures.”

“For the pictures. Yes, ma’am.” Giving the elastic a gentle yank, I loosen my hair. It’s not that long, as I had it cut a couple of weeks ago, but it still hits my shoulders. Turning to face the screen, I give my hair a good ruffle, freeing it from the stuff I used earlier to tame it.

Wren’s behind me, staring at me like she’s never seen a guy with long hair. Chuckling, I face her. “What? Too wild for you?”

“No, I love it,” she whispers, biting her lip.

Fuck.

“I love it when it’s back, too, in the man-bun—”

“God, I hate that term.” I groan, tipping my head back.

“Well, that’s what it is.” She sticks her hand on her hips, staring at me with so much heat in her eyes that it’s contagious.

“Do you need more time?” the assistant asks, probably watching as this unfolds on his laptop.

“No, we’re ready!” Wren arches her eyebrow. “Let’s act it out. Like we’re greasers.”

“Yeah?” I nod, warming to the idea. Why not? “Okay.”

The assistant opens the curtain, passing me a black bowler hat and Wren a pair of cat’s eye glasses. I knew he was listening.

Wren gasps with delight. “Thank you! This is perfect.”

“All right, on three…two…one…”

The first shot captures the two of us, arms folded and back-to-back, looking directly at the camera. No smiles, just manufactured sobriety. We change up the poses a little, but the mood stays the same. When the screen flashes for the last time, Wren sighs. “These are going to be epic; you’ll see.”

We exit the booth, returning the props to their table. After a moment, the photos slide out of booth, and they’re just as ridiculous as I expected. “Do you still have the photos from last time?” she asks, grinning at the set I hand her.

Nodding, I try to remember where in my room they might be. Brookefound them once. It was one of the few times we fought. She wanted me to toss them, so I put them in a more discreet location. By the bed, maybe, in a drawer. “Do you?”

She nods, smiling. “Yeah.”

Wren

Luca looks completely different with his hair down. I didn’t expect it to affect me the way that it does, but oh my goodness. All I want to do is sink my fingers into those dark, messy depths and tug as he takes me to a shadowy corner somewhere. Or his car, to play a little “backseat bingo,” as they said back in the 50’s.

The band starts its rendition of Elvis’ sultry “Blue Christmas” right as we step into the solarium, one of my all-time favorites. The universe must be having a marvelous time at my expense. I rest my purse on a decorative table and follow Luca to the dance floor, fingertips aching with the desire to touch him again.

Taking one of my hands into his, Luca wraps his arm around my waist and starts to sway.

I’m not much of a dancer, but I have good rhythm. Besides, it’s not hard to follow a man who leads this well. “You’re good at this,” I accuse, peeking up at him.

His lips quirk up, and he nods. “My father wasn’t a dancer, so my mother made me and Nico dance with her at parties. Still does. She loves to dance.”

Oh, jeez.The image of Luca Cardoso dancing with his mom melts me. I duck my face, not wanting him to see evidence of my infatuation. Because yes, over the course of this night, it’s back and better than ever—or worse, depending on how you look at it. I don’t think my heart rate has come back to normal since he approached me at the firepit.

Actually, I’ve been spun since he stole my strawberry. ‘Stole my strawberry.’ Sounds kind of like ‘popped my cherry’.

My mind wanders to the girl I saw him with all those months ago in Berkeley. How many girls like that have there been for him? Am I just another one? Luca slows before twirling me around, startling a laugh from me. He grins, and my stomach flips as he pulls me back a little closer than before.

We’re so close I’d have to lean back to look into his eyes, so I focus on his bowtie instead, the feel of his body, solid and tall, pressing against mine. Moving together like this, intoxicated by all of this longing, feels more intimate than I thought it would. Maybe he feels it too because he brushes his thumb between my shoulder blades.

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