Page 35 of My Pucking Enemy
And we’re in the perfect place for it. Palm trees, warm air, plenty of people with cameras.
Two hours ago, Luca finished playing against the Los Angeles Kings. It wasn’t the best performance of his career, but it was also a far cry from what happened against the Bruins. In my notebook, I jotted that down as a tiny piece of proof.
Our plan is already working. And we haven’t even gone on the first date yet.
Luca managed to get reservations to some fancy place, despite the short notice. If it was a real date, I might coo and be impressed with this, but I’m not. Because I was on the phone with him, writing down what he should say. Apparently, even though he’s Luca McKenzie, he’s not used to throwing that around to get what he wants. I’m more than happy to throw it around.
For the good of the plan, of course.
Turning one last time in the mirror, I confirm that I’m ready to be snapped up from all angles, then reach into my duffel and spritz on a little bit of expensive perfume I picked up—one of those travel containers that still manages to cost over a hundred dollars.
Most of my money funnels straight into my grandmother’s home costs, but when there’s something left over, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have something nice.
I used to have nice things all the time. Back when the only thing between me and a perfume I wanted was my ability to get it out the door. Or my father’s ability to get a whole pallet of the stuff, going on the wrong truck.
I run into Luca the moment I walk out of my room.
The first thing I notice is his cologne—something different from what he normally wears. Heavier, a little spicier. His normal smell is on the fresh side.
I practically bounce right off his chest, and he reaches out to right me like I might fall without his hands on me. Maybe I would. For some reason, the ability to think clearly leaves me for a moment as I stare at him.
“Are you kidding me?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, but holyfuck, it’s because Luca practically looks like a model.
He’s wearing a form-fitting pair of gray dress pants, which highlight hisgenerousstrength. It’s paired with some sort of black, button-less dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up slightly, collar just open enough to see the summit of his chest.
“What?” he asks, glancing first at his watch, then down at his outfit.
And when his eyes land on me, they don’t stop. They start at my face, trail to the tips of my hair, linger on my chest, then travel down the rest of my body like something out of a fucking movie.
“Did you justcheck me out?” I ask, eyebrows raising as I hike my little purse up to the crook of my elbow.
“You were checking me out, too,” he counters coolly, even as I notice the slight flush in his cheeks—and the way his pupils flare. It’s a closed loop—me watching him makes me react, the flush spreading over my chest, which draws his eyes there again, which makes my nipples hard—
“Christ,” I whisper, turning away. “Don’t we have a reservation to get to?”
Luca laughs from behind me, and I ignore the way the sound travels up the back of my spine.
I ignore the casual flop of his hair, the way he parts it to look like a 90s heart throb. I ignore how he walks with me from the hotel to the car, his hand lingering on my back for a moment too long as we climb into the backseat. Once we’re inside, we sit quietly, the backseat filling with the mixing smells of our perfume and cologne.
When I glance at him, I can’t help stifling a laugh.
“What?” he asks, tilting his head to glance at me. Where another man might fiddle with the cuff of his sleeve, Luca holds himselfperfectly and totally still. His tic is the absence of one. He shows his nervousness in an unbelievable ability to cope.
“I feel silly,” I admit, clearing my throat and looking down at the purse in my lap. It’s one of those knockoffs you can buy on the street. “Like we’re movie stars or something.”
“Thank god we’re not,” he says right away. “Could you imagine dealing with the paparazzi—I don’t even likesayingthat word—if you were that famous? It would be hell.”
“Seems like you’re a really private person.”
He looks at me suspiciously. “I guess…?”
“So, you’d probably hate it if someone hired a private investigator to—”
He reaches out, casually, playfully, pinching the inside of my arm in a way that makes me laugh, and also takes my breath away. By the time we’re pulling up outside the restaurant, we’re both laughing and smiling, and I forget.
I forget that the plan was for Luca to get out of the car first, to circle around to get me just in case there were too many of them. It completely evades my head, and I turn, grabbing the handle and stepping out before Luca can reach for me.
“Wren—” he calls, immediately sliding out after me, and at first, I panic.
