Page 18 of Backhanded Compliments

The moment breaks as Ricci spins around and knocks her hand off. “Don’t touch me,” she snarls. Her curls are frizzy and wild around her face, begging Luca to run her fingers through them. “Why are you here?” Ricci demands. She shoves at Luca’s shoulders, not hard, and Luca only sways.

Luca doesn’t know what to say. She can’t admit that she came to Naples early because she messed up her travel schedule and booked the wrong flight then promptly had a panic attack at the airport because she can’t speak a lick of Italian and the only thought that didn’t cause her to want to die was coming to Karoline’s villa, even though Ricci would be there.

Although seeing Ricci wielding a knife when she’d first opened the door had almost made Luca turn tail and run. Especially seeing her name scrawled black across Ricci’s pale wrist for the first time.

The humidity smothers Luca and her pulse throbs, a familiartightness in the center of her chest starting to swallow her. “I told you. I have nowhere else to go.” But now that Ricci has unintentionally shed light on her feelings, Luca latches onto it. “I want to move past whatever this is,” she adds, gesturing between them.

“Why? Why do you care if I’m jealous or hate you? You don’t like me either—and don’t even try to lie about it,” Ricci snaps, running an impatient hand over her hair and shoving strands off her sweaty forehead.

“I don’t care how you feel about me,” Luca says, knowing it’s a lie. Ricci’s cheeks blaze pink. Luca is surprised by how easy it is to rile Ricci. Before, she was cold, her words clipped and sharp. Now, her composure is unraveling before Luca’s eyes.

“Then what?”

“I don’t like when you act like a spoiled brat,” Luca says without thinking.

Ricci somehow manages to turn an even darker shade of red. “Fuck you,” she hisses through clenched teeth.

“We’re soulmates,” Luca says, forcing her voice louder, even though it catches in her throat. She has waited so long to say those words. They’ve been burning a hole in her throat since Ricci cut her off in Australia, and to finally say it out loud is such a relief, like swallowing an ice cube on a hot summer day. “Whether you like it or not, we’re going to be bound together.” In a fit of wild temptation, Luca almost rips her wrist wrap off and waves Ricci’s name in her face.

Ricci jerks her chin away. Luca’s heart hammers in her chest, the silence between them suffocating. Then she licks her lips and looks back at Luca. For a moment, Luca lets her hopes rise that perhaps, finally, Ricci will see sense. Luca has longed to find her soulmate for years. Alongside her dream for a Grand Slam, one of her deepest desires has been to find the one woman designed for her, the one who will love her unconditionally. And soulmates are meant to be evenly matched, opposite puzzle pieces that fit together and make each other better. Maybe Luca does need more of Ricci’s fiery passion, just as Ricci needs a bit of Luca’s calm focus.

“That wasn’t my choice, and even if it was, I never would have chosen you,” she says, the furious heat of her voice pitching low.

The words are a cruel knife, slicing through Luca’s carefully maintained armor and carving through the softest, most vulnerable part of her. And suddenly Luca is back in the locker room. Rejected by her own soulmate, again. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it did the first time, and yet it does. Instead of getting easier to swallow, the pain compounds on itself, threatening to crush Luca into a fine powder.

This time, when Ricci walks away, Luca does not follow.

JULIETTE

Despite chugging an entire bottle of water and popping more painkillers than would be recommended by a doctor, Juliette still wakes up with a massive hangover.

The headache throbs behind her temple, and she throws her arm over her eyes, trying to protect them from the sun’s violent assault.

She forces herself to sit up, and the bedroom spins. She swears and clutches her head. What had happened last night?

She flails her arms out, but there is no other warm body in the bed. There goes that theory.

Juliette is halfway to the bathroom when fragments of the previous night flicker through her head. She splashes cold water on her face and stares up at herself. Her hair is a tangled nest, falling out of the bun around her shoulder. It’ll be annoying to brush out.

“You are never drinking again,” Juliette tells her reflection, pointing the finger at her face. “Never.” She winces, remembering the poor choice of words she spat at Kacic.

I never would have chosen you.

Juliette groans and drops her head to her forearms as pain blisters through her skull. Before she can even think about making amends with Kacic, she needs painkillers.

She barely makes it down the stairs without falling head overheels. She stumbles into the kitchen and freezes. Kacic is standing there, a glass of water in one hand. She’s either soaked with sweat or she dove into the pool fully clothed.

“You’re up early,” Kacic says coolly, her eyes pinning Juliette to the spot. Her shoulders are stiff, and her knuckles are white around her glass.

“Headache,” Juliette mutters, finally making her feet move in the direction of the medicine cabinet. The sun slaps her in the face and she squints at it, offended by its audacity to shine when she feels like this.

“Too much to drink last night?” Kacic asks with a self-satisfied smirk.

Juliette huffs. She would rather not be reminded of the previous night. She grabs the ibuprofen and slams the cabinet door closed. It’s too loud and she winces, rubbing her aching eyes.

Kacic opens the fridge and ponders its contents for a moment before letting it fall shut with a frown.

“Hungry?” Juliette asks. Kacic turns back to her and crosses her arms over her chest, leaning on one hip. Her gaze is unreadable. Juliette pops a few painkillers dry, not wanting to step around Kacic to get a glass.

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