Page 32 of Miss Understood

Another long pause before the speaker cracks with sound again. “I thought Mateo was coming by.”

“He was, but I was out running errands anyway.” Lie. “So I told him I’d swing over.”

“If you want to just leave it, that’d be fine.”

“I’d rather not,” I say. “Can we have this conversation face to face, without the speaker?” A woman walking her dog looks my way.

There’s another pause, and I know this could go one of two ways: with her either reluctantly accepting me or sending me packing. I’m relieved when the door buzzes, letting me in.

Her building is nice, but the elevator ride feels like it takes hours with the blend of nervousness and excitement whizzing through me. By the time I reach her door, I wonder why I volunteered for this. I should have let Mateo do it. This is a very bad idea. Very, very—

The door swings open before I can knock, and the sight of Luce knocks the wind out of my chest. Even with a red nose and a paler-than-usual complexion, she’s absolutely stunning. Her hair’s tied back in a messy ponytail and a fresh face shows off her natural beauty. And when my eyes move down, I realize she’s in a simple oversized T-shirt—nothing else. The hard peaks of her nipples slice against the thin fabric.

Fuck, this is bad.

“You just going to stand there?” she says, resting her head against the open door.

Luce looks at me through hooded eyes, and it’s like watching a person I’ve never met before. No hard shell. No fight left. Just softness.

Her phone pings, and she leaves me standing in the doorway to get it. I follow her in, closing the door behind me and feeling like the click of that lock says a lot more than I want it to.

“Sorry, it’s my friends. Making sure I’m still alive,” she says with a thick cough, her thumbs typing out a response.

I take in her space. It’s exactly what I would expect from Luce’s apartment. All clean lines and white decor. Small pops of color in cool blue tones. A large painting hangs above the couch with striking grays and greens swirled together. The color reminds me of Luce’s eyes.

“Nice place,” I say, running my hand over a table by the entrance and looking over the framed photos that sit on top of it. They’re mostly of Luce with three men who share her same smile and sharp eyes.

“My brothers,” she says, walking up beside me and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Have you told them?”

“About us?” She waves her finger between us, and I nod. “Not yet. Still figuring out how to break that news.”

“But your friends?”

“They know,” she says. “And I’m never going to hear the end of it.” She shivers, and I realize I’m being an ass showing up here and dragging her out of bed.

“You’re shaking,” I say, reaching out before I can stop myself. My hand freezes on her arm as her eyes meet mine, and I realize this is more intimate than I expected, so I pull back. “Go lie down; I’ll heat up the soup.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Go. Lie. Down,” I tell her, and a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “Let me take care of my wife.”

“A little too comfortable,” she teases me again, and maybe she’s right. I shouldn’t enjoy calling her my wife as much as I do, but I can’t seem to help it.

“It’s what you are.” I grab onto her shoulders and spin her around. “Couch, now.”

She chuckles and walks away, the oversized shirt floating around her smooth thighs as she heads to the couch. I swallow a groan and head to the kitchen with the soup.

The last thing Luce needs right now is what’s going through my head.

When I finally make my way back out to the living room, she’s curled up with a pile of blankets and pillows, but one bare leg is stretched out from under them, and it draws all my attention.

“Here you go.” I set the bowl down on the table, and she unburies her face from her hands.

“Thank you,” she says with a suspicious look. “You’re being awfully nice.”

“I can be nice.” I sink down on the couch across from her and pull her leg onto my lap. “Maybe you just don’t know me that well.”

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