“Why do you have such an effect on me, Gretchen? Do you feel the same?”
Luca’s finger touches my leg and runs up the side of my thigh, pulling up the silk material as he goes.
“You already know the answer,” I say, knowing that my body’s reactions are obvious.
I can’t hide the goose bumps and the heat that spreads over my cheeks when he touches me. His hand stretches over the top of my thigh, his finger skimming my center, and my body shivers. “Luca.” His name drops from my lips like a moan, and I splay my hands against the door, needing to hold on to something, anything, for support.
He brings his lips to my ear and whispers, “You promised you’d forgive me.”
His lips ascend onto my neck and devour the sensitive skin, and my back arcs, overwhelmed by the sensation. The grip on my thigh tightens as he pulls my legs apart.
“But I won’t forgive myself,” I rush out, my voice half desperation, half regret.
Even in this moment, I won’t be dishonest. I won’t forgive myself.
His body stills and I’m suddenly cold. He’s stepped back, away from me. I turn the key and push my door open, then close it behind me.
The light seeps into my bedroom from the open drapes I’d forgotten to close last night. Jesus, last night. My fingers dart to my neck where Luca kissed me, and I trace the path his lips explored. It feels like a hot dream, but it wasn’t. Never again, Gretchen.
I bring my hands over my face and inhale, then exhale and run them down my cheeks. He’s complicated—this is complicated—and as much as I wish it felt clearer, in the light of day, it doesn’t. Whatever almost happened last night feels like a loss today. I’ve lost something I never really had.
I just need a fresh start, a new day, and a plan to confront whatever this thing that’s going on between us is, head-on.
My phone vibrates and I lean over to the nightstand and look at the screen. Drew.
“Hey, you,” I answer, more chipper than I’m feeling.
“Good morning, lazy ass. Are you coming to dinner tonight? I assumed by your text last night that you were, but then the next text sounded like you weren’t. I wanted to confirm. I have to call the food into the restaurant.”
I’d texted Drew after talking to Luca the first time and said I was coming to dinner, and then after he walked me to the door last night, I’d sent another saying “Never mind, probably not happening tomorrow.”
“When are you going to learn to cook, Drew?” I avoid answering because I’m still unsure.
I should have a conversation with Luca about last night.
She laughs.
“This coming from a person that doesn’t have food in their fridge.” I roll my eyes.
She’ll never learn to cook, but then again, she won’t have to.
“I’m not good with the details, but I can cook, and you know it!”
She knows I’m amazing in a kitchen when I have food. I just haven’t used my skills in a while.
“I don’t know if I can believe that. It’s been so long, G,” she teases but then quiets. I know she’s worried she’s overspoken.
I keep it light, hoping to reassure her. “You’re going to eat those words. I’ll see you later. I’m making dinner.”
It’s been forever since I’ve done this—cooked a family dinner. The reminder starts to bring back old memories, but I tuck them away for another day. Sooner or later, I’ll need to get back to living my life without feeling like I’m betraying my dad.
“Perfect!” she squeals. “I thought it would be harder to talk you into it. Will you say we did it together?”
“No.” I giggle and hang up on her.
I knew what she wanted—she couldn’t lie to save her life—but I’m happy she gave me an excuse to remember a piece of myself that I’ve been missing. And I’m equally as happy to have a chance to clean up my mess.
I may have almost canceled late last night, but I’ve never been a coward, so I won’t start now. I need to look Luca in the eye and tell him it’s all water under the bridge. Nothing really happened anyway.
The hottest moment of nothing, never happened.
I know it borders on utter bullshit, but the important thing is that we stopped before it all got irrevocably damaged. We can go back to how it was before. Unless we can’t. We’ll see.
I shoot out of bed and plant my feet on the floor, stretching my arms above my head. Okay, I need a shower, food, and then a list of groceries. I’m actually looking forward to tonight. It’s not just about doing something that I’ve abandoned out of grief, it’s also about the feeling of being a part of something bigger than me. These people became my family well before I lost my dad. I love them and this is how I can show it.
I make my way to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and grab a hair tie, piling my hair on top of my head. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I see the happiness on my face, and I smile wider. It feels nice to feel, well, nice. I feel light, not so marred down by life. A piece of me knows that this feeling didn’t just start today and that I’m not just excited to cook for my friends, but I tuck that feeling away too for another day.
I begin to pull my white cami over my head when the doorbell rings. Who the hell is at the door this early? Or late, depending on how someone views 11:00 a.m.? I put my top back in place and walk quickly to the door as the bell rings again.
“Coming.”
I look through the peephole and see a white T-shirt on a well-built man. Luca. My eyes almost pop out of my head “Fuck,” I whisper and duck away from the peephole, pressing my back up against the door, my hands covering my mouth. Why is he here?
I was 100 percent hoping to practice a whole monologue of what I was going to say in the shower. I begin to chew on the inside of my cheek, debating how to handle this.
“Open the door, Gretchen.” Shit, he knows I know he’s here. Oh man, this was not the morning I’d envisioned.
I grab the door handle, twist, and open, swinging it wide, keeping my arm on the door to block his entrance.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I greet, hoping for cool and collected.
I’m pretty sure I’m failing miserably.
His eyes shoot to my chest. The fabric has been worn down over time and it’s a bit revealing, but I love it and it’s super comfortable. And they’re nipples—I’m sure he’s seen his fair share. But by the way his eyes become hooded, he isn’t thinking about my sleep set.
“Can I come in?” His jaw tenses, and then he licks his lips.
“No.” I shake my head. “You’re here looking like you came to eat me alive.”
His head pulls back, a grin growing on his face. He nods, not saying a word, and lets out a growl as he plants his arms on each side of the doorframe, leaning in closer on me.
I can’t take my eyes off his lips, and I watch them part with his words.
“Would you like me to eat you alive, Gretchen?”
God, he smells like fucking temptation and heaven. The scruff on his chiseled jaw isn’t hurting the allure either.
“Yes,” I whisper so low that I basically mouth the word, not wanting to make it real.
Locking eyes with him, I stand my ground again. “But I thought we’d established that my pussy isn’t an option on the menu for you.” He crosses his arms over his chest and barks out a laugh. “All you get is my friendship, Luca.” I blink once at the smirk still on his face. “Why are you here?”
His finger touches my shoulder. “For you. To talk about last night, to banter, to do whatever it is that we do because it makes me…I don’t know.” His brow furrows like he doesn’t like what he’s saying, and his finger curls back into his hand, then retreats back into his pocket. “I want it.” Me too.
We stand for another moment, just staring at each other. He’s always so controlled, so calculated. But he seems as thrown by our unlikely friendship as I am. I know I’m still attracted to him, but I also like him, and I can’t decide if that makes him more or l
ess dangerous to me.
He shrugs as if he’s answering my thoughts, and I push the door open farther to let him pass me and walk in. He bends down to pick something up from the ground before he walks by me. I close the door and take him in, his back to me, standing in the middle of all my boxes in dark jeans and his white T-shirt and shell-top Adidas sneakers.
“You weren’t lying about unpacking,” he says, looking out into my apartment.
“I never do,” I answer.
It feels intimate having him here. I’m not sure I’m prepared for Luca; I’ll never make it out alive. He turns to where I’m still standing, back against the door, and glances at my chest.
“You need to put on a shirt. Your tits are distracting. And water is running…”
A boost of adrenaline shoots through my body and I jump.
“Oh shit! I left the shower running.”
I race past him into my bedroom and straight to the shower to turn it off. I reach for a towel to dry off my hand when Luca fills the space of my bathroom. I always thought it was a large space until now.
“Lift your arms.”
He holds a gray Columbia sweatshirt that was sitting on the chair in my living room. It’s one I’ve had forever, since graduation.
I look down at the top and back to him.
“I can dress myself, Luca.”
But his face remains serious. He nods but doesn’t move or hand over the shirt.
“Lift.” His voice is strained, as if he’s struggling.
It’s the same way I feel. I can feel his struggle; Luca’s eyes haven’t left mine. This is him doing the right thing, for me and himself.
I lift my arms slowly over my head, and he lines the hands up and slips the soft cotton over me and then over my head. I lower my arms when he pulls the fabric over my chest and looks into my eyes again. There’s something about this that feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done. He’s caring for me. Not trying to fuck me or scandalize me. He wants to protect me, from himself.
“Thank you,” I whisper, wishing I could kiss him my thoughts instead of saying them.
He just nods and steps back and out of my bathroom. I stay, needing to refocus. I don’t know how long I’ve been in the bathroom—five, ten minutes—but I decide to treat him like any other friend and then have the uncomfortable talk. But when I walk around the corner, my feet stop moving—everything stops because Luca King is in my kitchen unpacking the boxes.
My boxes.
The ones that he knows I can’t.
He looks over his shoulder and then points to the counter where there’s a croissant and what looks like coffee. I look back to him, not knowing how to process what he’s doing. He knows. He knows what these boxes mean to me. He knows how gutted I am at the goddamn thought of opening them. But here he is. Unpacking them for me.
I walk with slow steps to the counter and take the croissant in one hand and the coffee in the other, feeling so many emotions that I won’t speak. I can’t. I don’t even know where to start. I look at him, knowing that I feel lost. He points to the chair a few feet behind me, and that’s where I go to sit. I draw my legs up beside me and nestle into the oversized chair and watch him carefully and methodically lift glass after glass, placing them into the empty cupboards. We don’t speak or say anything.
I just watch him take care of me.
I DIDN’T PLAN TO DO this. Any of it. I came here to tell her that what happened last night would never happen again. To tell her to keep her mouth shut. I came here to make sure last night stayed in the past and forgotten. I don’t need the fucking headache. But now I’m dressing her and unpacking her boxes.
The moment she opened the door, I knew that if she didn’t put on a goddamn shirt that I would spend the immediate future finding justifications for fucking her in the doorway. And that I would also try and manipulate her as well.
But when I walked in and saw the boxes, I remembered her words and everything changed. I wouldn’t let myself manipulate her, so I did the only thing I could do. I grabbed a sweatshirt and put it on her. And now I’m doing this because I can’t fuck her, love her, or be with her, but I can do this. And this is what she needs.
We’ve sat in silence for over an hour. Every box in her kitchen has been checked off and unpacked, and she hasn’t said a word from her chair. I grab the last box, smaller than the rest, and tear open the top.
Inside the wrapped newspaper are four coffee mugs, They’re all some various rendition of “World’s Best Dad.” I look over my shoulder, knowing she’s going to feel this, but I pull out each one and unwrap it fully from the paper. I take them to the sink, washing and drying the individual mugs. I make sure to wash them with care, as if the level of gentleness I treat the mugs is directly related to how I’ll treat her feelings.
When I look up, her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. I would expect nothing less from her. Always so strong. Her words catch me off guard, and my eyes jump to her.
“I got that one”—she points to a white mug with rainbow letters—“for my dad when I was twelve. It was the same year my mom left us, and we were both going through it. You know, just real deep in the grief that she didn’t want us.”
She pushes her hair over her shoulder and takes a deep breath, lost in the memory.
“Anyway, he always used to say, ‘You can’t have a rainbow without a little bit of rain.’ I was his rainbow.” She smiles. “It was always his way of saying that I was his gift. So, I got him the cup with rainbow letters that year.”
A stray tear escapes her eye, but she wipes it away faster than it descends.
I don’t say anything. I want to, but it all seems empty. All the nice words or promises things will get better seem like bullshit. I just give her a wink because she needs to feel this—she needs to feel broken, to own it so she can move past it.
I know; I’ve been right where she is. I had Dom to let me rage and pick me up. She has me. A thought pushes to the forefront of my mind and stills my hands as I load the cups into the cabinet. She has you. She’s rooted herself inside of you, and you need to walk away.
We continue like this for another hour, me unpacking and her remembering and telling me memories. My phone starts to go off like there’s a three-alarm fire, and she grabs it from where it’s sitting next to her and looks at the screen. “Says Shelby.” She holds it out to me, clearly uncomfortable that my wife is calling.
I walk around the island and squat in front of Gretchen, taking the phone and hitting Ignore.
“Don’t do that. Don’t look like that, don’t.”
Her expression is tight. She’s feeling ashamed or regretful, and I fucking hate it.
“Gretchen, look at me.” Her eyes meet mine. “Nothing happened. We can be friends—you might be the best friend I’ve had in some time. I know it’s tricky, but don’t tap out. Not yet.”
Her hand reaches out, gently gripping the front of my hair, and I smile.
“Luca, what am I going to do with you? This ‘friendship’ is a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Maybe, but it keeps me from losing my mind, and right now I feel like we’re exactly what the other needs.” I answer honestly.
She lets go of my hair and I run my fingers through it, watching her thoughts play across her face. She’s considering every word. I hate that I can’t hear all of them. I want her to agree to our friendship because I’m not ready to really walk away. I’m greedy and selfish. I want her and right now I’ll take her any way I can.
“All right, friends. But no touching or flirting or anything inappropriate. Don’t make me hate you because today you are pretty fucking amazing. Thank you.”
“For?” I ask honestly.
“My boxes, my memories, my peace of mind. I haven’t had that in a while, so… thanks.”
I just nod and stand back up. I need a breath because if I’m not careful, I’ll never leave her side.
“I have to go. I need to call Shelby back.”
> I look down at my phone, feeling the tension start to build at the mention of my wife. I don’t want that here, in this space.
“Sounds like a fun time.”
Her voice is sarcastic, like she understands what I’m about to deal with. I look at her apologetically, unable to say what I want. But I’m met with understanding eyes. Gretchen hears what I mean, not just what I say.
“Always. You coming to dinner tonight?” I ask over my shoulder as I walk toward her door.
“I’m cooking it.” She laughs, and I turn back around.
“What? You cook?” I can’t help my surprise. This was unexpected.
“Yes, I do. See ya, Luca.”
She smiles and gives me a small wave, getting up from her chair and disappearing into her bedroom. I want to follow her and make sure she’s okay, but I don’t. I let myself out, texting her to lock her door, and walk down the hall. My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since Shelby called the first time, but she can wait until I’m in my car.
I head out of the building and jump into my black SUV. I gave George the day off, opting to drive myself. Truth is, I didn’t want anyone to know where I was going today. My phone rings again and I connect it through the car.
“What the hell, Luca?” Shelby’s voice carries through the car.
“I’ve missed your voice.” My voice is saturated in sarcasm.
“Well, you get to hear it in person. I’m back. I want to talk.”
I switch lanes, rolling my eyes. “No.”
“What? I said I want to talk. Isn’t that what you wanted…for me to listen to you?” Everything about the way she whines fills me with disgust. The time for listening has passed, sweetheart.
“No. I want to punish you for your stupidity. That won’t require conversation.”
Worship (Sinful Series Book 2) Page 6
