Page 16 of State of Mind

And apart from that, he also had a feeling Luca was a good person, underneath the confusion and defense. He had kind eyes—a lot like his brother—and his rough edges could be smoothed out with maybe a little attention and a little care.

“Are you allergic to anything?” he asked after a beat, and Luca rolled his eyes.

“Pine nuts.”

Wilder bit back a laugh. “I remembered that part. I mostly meant animals.” Luca shook his head, so he dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone, opening up a new contact. “I’ll text you, and I’ll be by to pick you up probably around nine.”

“Oh. Early,” Luca muttered.

“It’s a ranch.” He took his phone back, then shot off a quick smiling emoji before tucking it away in his pocket. “I could be making you do this at sunrise—I mean, if you wanted to do it right.”

Luca pulled a face. “I’ll get to bed early.”

Wilder stood, then bent over to pick up Luca’s empty water bottle, and he smiled. “See you bright and early.”

Luca’s body deflated, but there was still a light in his eyes, and Wilder suddenly realized he didn’t want to see that dimmed.

CHAPTER 7

Luca stared at the mess in the kitchen sink with a sigh, lamenting that there weren’t housekeeping services to make it disappear. And really, this was what he’d asked for. Self-reliance—and more than that, hard work. A little sweat, a few tears.

Maybe more than a few, if he let himself think about recent events.

The night before had been fine before he’d almost poisoned himself with the first bite of his salad, and he’d been gripped with panic when he realized his epi-pen was sitting in his shaving kit at the Manor, which would have taken too damn long for anyone to get. There was a fire station across the street, but he didn’t trust a place he didn’t know to be well equipped, and he wanted to find himself there, not die from anaphylactic shock in some tiny little bar.

He knew it was fear and anxiety that had set him off, then faint humiliation—again—when everyone at the bar was staring at him. So, he did what he did best—he stuck his nose in the air, told everyone to fuck off, and then he’d disappeared.

He hadn’t expected the actual cold-shoulder the following morning, but by the time the cupcake baker found him, he knew his time was up. He’d been just seconds away from hitting the purchase button on a ticket home when the man had sat beside him. And Luca wasn’t entirely sure what to do with everything the guy said to him, but he thought maybe the universe was giving him a sign.

Wilder was sweet. He was unlike most people Luca was used to dealing with. He looked late twenties or maybe early thirties that had aged well with laugh lines and soft eyes, and a gentle sort of beachy wave to his dark hair.

His voice was heavy with a sort of internal confidence that Luca knew he was lacking, and he outright admitted to pitying Luca for his sorry existence—not that he could blame the guy. He was just getting tired of being this caricature of himself, but he had no way to stop it without figuring out who the fuck he even was.

Once upon a time, he might have been an accountant. In school, he was good with math, and there was the thought of an MBA on the horizon. But he’d stopped after his bachelor’s, and he’d gone to work at a pizza parlor, and that paid his shitty rent and gave him beer money—and it was all fine until Adriano showed up with his first seven-hundred-thousand-dollar paycheck and dropped more cash in Luca’s account than he’d ever thought he’d see in his life.

Pietro taught him how to invest, and Adriano taught him what good art was supposed to look like. And Luca bought expensive clothes and designer shoes and hung out with people ten years younger than him because he thought it made him look good. He funded Gabby’s law school entry because she was going to be so good at it, but also because she liked to fuck him without strings.

And that was who he was. In that moment, to that day, that’s who he was.

His stomach twisted in on itself, and he turned his back on the dishes. He’d managed a weak pasta, though his sauce had promise if it marinated in the fridge for a few days. But he wanted to be more than a man with a fat bank account, soft scarves, and a good marinara recipe.

He locked the apartment behind him, feet snug in Birkenstocks that made him look like a tool—though he didn’t give much of a shit considering his reputation couldn’t be worse right then—and he took the stairs carefully. He meant to sneak out the front door when Raphael wasn’t looking, but Luca’s heart stuttered when he found the other man standing leaning on a forearm crutch, his other arm folded over his chest.

“He lives,” Raphael said.

Luca’s cheeks flushed. “Look, I’ve already been told that I’m not wanted, so if you’re standing here to rub it in…”

“You look like a man who needs a pedicure.”

Luca’s throat went tight. “What makes you say that?”

“Because your entire body is one long line of tension, and a foot massage can help that.” Raphael leaned over the desk and came back with a second crutch, hooking the cuff on his arm before turning. He moved into the salon a bit farther, then turned when he realized Luca wasn’t following. “If I promise to put up the closed sign, will you come along?”

Luca walked to the doorway, then stuttered to a halt. “Not to be a dick, but…”

“Oh je,” he moaned, turning all the way. “I’m not here to mock you or to embarrass you. You did that enough for yourself last night.”

Luca felt his blush all the way to his toes. “So, what is this?”

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