Page 82 of Alpha-Ex Wedding Ruse
And leaving separately would only raise eyebrows.
With a sigh, I shoved my tablet and notes into my bag, packed up my pride, and headed to the driveway.
By the time I got there, Luca had already started the car. I climbed in.
The ride moved on in silence, but my mind wasn’t nearly as quiet. Being five centimeters away from him was its own kind of torture. Heat radiated off his body like an open flame, and I was the foolish moth leaning closer.
He had his sleeves rolled up. One hand gripped the steering wheel, forearm flexed, a Rolex glinting under the dashboard light like it had no business being that sexy. And I? I was a mess.
I imagined those arms cupping my face, his mouth claiming mine, slow and deep like he had all the time in the world. I imagined those hands—those infuriatingly skilled hands—on my breasts, my ass, between my thighs, teasing until I broke, until the only sound in the room was me moaning his name like a forgotten prayer.
And then—
I looked up.
Luca glanced at me, and his gaze darkened—like he could see every filthy thought I’d just played out in my head.
My cheeks caught fire. I snapped my gaze to the window, feeling the burn crawl down my neck. Embarrassment. Lust. Shame. All of it.
“Who do you have dinner plans with?” Luca’s voice cut through the silence.
His voice wasn’t casual. It wasn’t even a question. It was a command—low, sharp, laced with unmistakable indignation.
I turned to him, heat rising in my chest. “That’s none of your business.”
His hand tightened on the wheel. “It’s exactly my business. Because barely forty hours ago, you were kissing me,” he said, his jaw tight. “Kissing me like you meant it. Like you wanted it. And now you want to dress up and go out to dinner and pretend nothing happened between us?”
“You don’t get to do this.”
“The hell I don’t,” he snapped.
“I don’t owe you an explanation, Luca.”
He shot me a look, his eyes burning with anger. “What, so you can just pretend like it didn’t happen? Like none of it meant anything?”
I turned back to the window, my throat tight. “Maybe you should try doing the same.”
He pulled up in front of the gallery, and I didn’t wait. I jumped out—yes, jumped—like the car had caught fire.
Inside the gallery’s reception area, I approached the front desk.
“Good evening, Mr. Frank. My name is Leila Carter. I called earlier regarding the acquisition of a few pieces for Elena Moreau’s wedding.”
The man’s face lit with recognition. “Ah, Ms. Carter. Of course.” He reached out to shake my hand. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“Me neither,” I muttered under my breath as I took his hand.
“This is my…” I glanced at Luca beside me, and when I said the next words—deliberately—I caught the flicker of something dark flash across his face. “My client, Luca Vaughn. He’s the groom.” The words hit like shards in my throat, and I hated how true they were. The groom.
Mr. Frank turned to Luca and extended his hand. “Mr. Vaughn. Congratulations on your upcoming wedding.”
Luca didn’t even try to hide it. He let the man’s hand hang for an awkward second—his eyes slicing into me like he was still waiting for an answer to the question he asked in the car —before finally offering a brief, clipped handshake.
“I’ve selected our finest collection as requested. Please, follow me.”
He led us past the polished marble floors and tall glass partitions into the heart of the gallery, where soft overhead lights bathed each piece in a quiet, reverent glow. The space smelled faintly of wood and paint.
“How many pieces are you looking to acquire?” Mr. Frank asked.
