Page 61 of Can't Always Get What You Want

He was already married to his job.

“She got to the altar, stared at him for maybe five seconds, then just turned around and walked back down the aisle. No big scene, no meltdown. Just a power exit.”

Luca’s eyes widen. “She ghosted him at the altar?”

“In front of three hundred guests. I was in the second row with my jaw on the floor. It was incredible.” Admirable.

He is hanging on my every word. “What happened after?”

I shrug, taking the chicken out of the parchment paper. “She went on the honeymoon alone and slept with a few strangers, laid on the beach, got sunburnt. When she returned home, she was stronger and more fierce than ever.”

“Damn.”

“Everyone loves Bethany. We went to high school together and have been friends ever since. She's the most self-aware person I know. Like, she knew she couldn’t marry someone just because the invitations had been mailed out.”

“Sounds like an expensive mistake,” Luca says, rolling up his sleeves.

I hand him a lemon, a knife, and point to the cutting board. “Totally worth it. That’s the cost of freedom, baby.”

“My kind of girl.” He slices the lemon with slow, steadyprecision, as if he’s afraid to slice his finger off. “So…what’s next, Chef?”

I gesture toward the rosemary and olive oil. “Coat the chicken, season it, arrange it pretty in the pan. You can handle that, right?”

“If you say so,” he replies, brows furrowed in concentration as he drizzles olive oil with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.

I suppress a smile. “Relax. It’s dinner—not brain surgery.”

“Easy for you to say. You look like you know what you’re doing.” He glances at me sideways, worrying his bottom lip. “I can’t impress you if I hack off my damn fingers.”

He is so cute.

I love the fact he’s taking this seriously.

Luca is so hyper focused on perfectly placing each lemon slice into a roasting pan, I have to look away before I blurt something ridiculous like, I’m already impressed. I think you’re adorable.

Because the truth is…Ialready was.

It’s not the knife skills—or the way he listens when I explain things. It’s the way he already looks like he fits into my space; it already feels like we’ve done this dozens of times before. The flirting. The banter. I feel so…

Comfortable with him. He belongs in my kitchen, sleeves rolled up, slinging sarcastic comments by way of flirting.

It’s terrifying, actually.

I didn’t invite him up for this—forconnection. For cozy domesticity. For intimacy.

I invited him up for fun. A distraction.

A lark.

So why does he already feel like amore?

My eyes stray to the spot below his ear where his hair is curling at the nape of his neck and I lick my lips.

God, Nova, get a grip.

He doesn’t even notice, which somehow makes it worse.

I’m notjustattracted to him. I likewatchinghim. I like theway he hums under his breath when he concentrates. The way he makes me laugh without trying and makes my stomach drop without touching me.

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