Page 14 of Bitter When He Begs

“The problem,” I snap, “is that you’re fucking insufferable.”

Roman snorts, not even looking up. “He’s not wrong.”

Luca grins wider. “I think he secretly likes it.”

I do not.

I hate that my hands are shaking as I go back to adjusting the camera, ignoring the way my pulse pounds in my throat, ignoring the way my body remembers Friday, ignoring the fact that I had convinced myself I wouldn’t see him again so soon, let alone like this.

“You’re blushing.”

I am not.

Except—yeah, okay, maybe I am, but it’s not my fault that he decided to show up half-naked, looking like something out of a goddamn sportswear ad.

Roman, completely unaware of the war happening inside my head, gestures toward the lighting rigs. “You helping or just standing there looking pretty?”

Luca shrugs, crossing his arms, which only makes it worse, because fuck, his biceps—

No.Nope.

Not thinking about it.

I clear my throat, dragging my gaze away, grabbing a clamp and forcing myself to focus. “We’re almost done. Just need to adjust the last setup.”

Luca hums, watching me with barely concealed glee. “You look a little flustered.”

I clench my jaw. “I will hit you with this tripod.”

Roman sighs. “If you two are gonna start some weird hate-fuck flirting thing, can you at least wait until I’m not in the room?”

I choke on air, and Luca laughs. Then I snap my head toward Roman. “We arenot—”

Roman cuts me off with a flat look. “Sage, you’ve been adjusting the same knob for the last two minutes and you’re shaking like you just saw God.”

Luca grins and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s because he did.”

I hate him so much.

But my face is burning, my hands are shaking, and the only thing I can do is get the fuck out of here before I lose my mind.

I finish tightening the last clamp, adjusting the lighting rig until it’s perfect, hyper-focusing on the work, not on Luca’s burning gaze still pinned to me. Not on the way he keeps shifting in my peripheral vision like he’s just waiting, biding his time, lingering like a fucking storm cloud about to break open.

I do not look at him.

I do not acknowledge him.

Idopack up my shit as fast as humanly possible, though.

Roman gives me a nod, distracted with his camera settings, already lost in whatever vision he’s got for this project. “Appreciate the help, man.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “No problem.”

And then I make a beeline for the front door because I am not getting dragged into whatever the fuck this is again. I am not playing Luca’s game, not letting him tease me, touch me, or look at me like he knows I’m already unraveling from the inside out.

I get maybe three steps before something hard and solid slams into my back, and—

Oh, what the fuck?

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