Page 26 of The Secret Play

Her smile softened, and she nestled closer, her back pressing onto my chest as we spooned on the couch. “You’re full of surprises, Casey.”

“So are you,” I said, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

“I hope you like surprises.”

“Most of the time. You?”

She yawned. “Yeah. Especially from you.”

She fell asleep not long after, her breathing evening out as her body relaxed against mine. I stayed where I was, not wanting to wake her, and let my thoughts wander.

I’d been in love before. I knew the symptoms. Or at least, I thought I did. Feelings for different women were always unique in their depth and breadth. But this thing with Gemma was something else entirely.

The other times I’d been in love, it was this grown-up, mature kind of thing. It lacked the magnetic pull I felt with her. It was more cerebral—go to her house, bring her flowers, take her to the nicest places in town, keep things formal so she knew I took her seriously, all that stuff adults were supposed to do to show that they cared.

But how much of that was something I wanted to do? Was I just using plays from someone else’s playbook this whole time? I had never felt like my exes knew me. Or maybe that was how I kept from getting too involved. My way of keeping them at a distance.

Had I ever watchedCasablancawith any of them?

The truth was, what I felt with Gemma was completely unique. I hadn’t felt this way about anyone before—not even in my longest relationship. There was something about her that made me feel like I was seeing the world differently, like I was finally waking up after years of sleepwalking.

As I held her, her warmth pressing against me, I felt a stir of desire that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with her. She was messy, unfiltered, and completely herself, and I couldn’t get enough of it.

I couldn’t tell her now or anytime soon, but there was something about Gemma Grimaldi that felt like home. Like she was the person I could be myself with and she wouldn’t run screaming for the hills.

Chapter 10

Gemma

The faint light of morning seeped through the windows when I woke up on the couch. For a moment, I wasn’t entirely sure where I was, the unfamiliar surroundings catching me off guard. Not in LA anymore, genius.

But this wasn’t my place.

Then, everything flooded back—the relocation, the date, the ribs, the movie, and the way I’d fallen asleep spooned against him, his arm wrapped protectively around me. What the hell was in those ribs? I hadn’t slept that deeply in years. If ever.

Careful not to disturb him, I shifted slightly, my limbs stiff from sleeping in the same position for hours. Casey was still asleep, his breathing deep and steady. His hair was slightly mussed, and his lips were parted just enough to let out the faintest hint of a snore. The sight made my chest ache in a way I wasn’t sure how to describe.

But nature was calling, and I didn’t want to risk waking him, so I slipped out from under his arm and padded toward the bathroom. The cool tile under my feet helped shake off the lingering grogginess as I splashed water on my face and stared at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed, my hair a bit of a mess, but I couldn’t help the smile on my lips.

We’d had a completely nonsexual date, and somehow, I felt even closer to him. First his favorite rib place, followed by his favorite movie. And when I told him there’d be no sex for the night, he was relieved. I saw it on his face. We were simpatico in a way that I didn’t quite understand, like we shared a vibe or something.

Megan was going to have a field day with this one. She’d probably demand to know his birth date so she could do his astrology chart and see if we’re destined or something.

I didn’t know what the future held for us, but I was eager to find out.

After a few minutes, I made my way back into the living room, ready to finish that nap. When I was gone, Casey had rearranged himself in his sleep, sprawling out on the couch. His shirt had shifted to the side, exposing a sliver of tanned skin and the curve of his shoulder.

That’s when I saw it.

The birthmark.

It wasn’t a subtle mark—it was shaped unmistakably like Italy, stretching along his shoulder.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat as my heart pounded against my ribs.

I knew that birthmark.

It was burned into my memory, as clear as the night I’d first seen it. That masquerade ball, five years ago. The man I’d calledRed,the man whose face I’d never seen but whose warmth, whose voice, and whose body had stayed with me long after I’d left him.

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