LUCA (Leaves of a Maples Book 5)

by Haley Jenner

  Spinning, my palms reach up into his sweatshirt, moving to bring much needed relief to my aching nipples.

  My feet stumble mid-twirl, hands attempting to pull from his sweatshirt to steady me. That only worsens my misstep. My ass hits the floor before I’ve even registered I was actually falling, and I grunt loudly.

  Ripping my headphones off my head, I swallow loudly, the sound echoing through the room. Standing with as much grace as I can muster, I readjust his sweatshirt on my body. Running my tongue along my teeth, my chin lifts with a dignity that I don’t currently feel, eyes settling on the bristling Viking standing by the door.

  “’Sup?” My voice stretches, adopting a baritone that causes my neck to shade.

  Smooth, Frankie.

  Rocking back on the balls of my feet, Luca’s eyes bore into me, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

  “How long you been standing there?”

  My already clammy skin now feels sticky. The cool air tickling me in a teasing caress, forcing goosebumps to prickle along every inch of me.

  I lift my thick hair from my neck, tying it atop of my head. The move pulls his sweater up my thighs and he watches it move, nostrils flaring, teeth grinding.

  He remains silent as we stand awkwardly in his place. Because right now, I’m a guest. Feeling overtly out of place with his suffocating aura.

  Frenchie having made his way from the couch, stands dutifully at Luca’s booted feet. Staring up at him, ears standing upright in eager anticipation.

  Gaze still fixed to mine, Luca bends, the crackle of his jeans bouncing between us. Frenchie licks his chin, breaking the intensity of the moment, deflating the breath I had held in my chest.

  A small smile plays along Luca’s lips, his face moving to look down at my dog.

  “Hey, buddy. Missed you too.”

  His large palm scratches at the nape of Frenchie’s neck, his eyes drifting back to me.

  “Nice sweatshirt.”

  Pulling my arms into the sleeves, my feet flex at the ankle, a nervous twitch.

  “Thought we agreed it was mine now.”

  Both of his eyebrows rise to his hairline, but he says nothing.

  “No? Huh. Could’ve sworn we had that conversation.”

  Moving to drop Frenchie onto the couch, he leans against its back. Exuding lazy comfort, he tucks his hands into his pockets, ankles crossed, he looks up at me through his dark lashes.

  "Not helping me here, friend." His eyes drift down the naked skin of my legs, traveling back up to rest on where his sweatshirt skates along my upper thighs. I watch his Adam's apple bob with the pressure of his swallow and my throat mirrors the movement. "What do you have against pants?" The pain in his voice resonates between my thighs and I resist the urge to rub them together. Barely.

  Friends.

  "I'm wearing pants."

  Reluctantly he pulls his eyes from my bare thighs, resting his gaze on mine. The lust swirling in the blue of his eyes dances across my skin like fire. So hot, my skin flushes with the intensity.

  "Reckon there's some rule about pants needing to be longer than the shirt you're wearin'. Especially in the presence of... friends." The last word finishes on a growl and I blink slowly, concentrating on the importance of not begging him to fuck me. Friends don't fuck. We agreed on that.

  "Well, friend." I fail miserably at hiding the scowl in my tone. "You were supposed to be working tonight. My lack of pants was none of your business, because I assumed I'd be home alone."

  He watches me move to the bed, grabbing a pair of sleep shorts, yanking them up my legs, working my hardest not to fall on my ass.

  "Yeah, they're so much better." He gestures to the shorts still hidden by his sweatshirt. "And the stripper routine?"

  Hands to my hips, I scowl. "Again. I was supposed to be home alone. I didn't care to listen to Jake and Aubrey fucking like porn stars. Ariana brings out my inner stripper, not my fault you came home early," I huff, moving toward the couch and dropping myself down.

  "Now, I was gonna watch The Conjuring and gorge myself on pizza. You’re welcome to join me.”

  "Pizza? From where?"

  I side-eye him, reaching forward to retrieve the remote. "Is that question for real?"

  "Lucky's?" he tests hopefully, moving closer to the couch.

  Smirking, I glance over at him.

  "You order breadsticks?"

  "Pulease." I frown in disappointment. "What kind of question is that? What type of yokel do you take me for? Of course I ordered breadsticks."

  He contemplates me for a second before dropping his keys and phone haphazardly on the coffee table. "You picking up?"

  I smile triumphantly. "Oh, Luc, your naivety is cute. I've befriended Karen's son, Tyler, he's kind enough to deliver."

  Arms crossed across his chest he eyes me suspiciously. I avoid eye contact, investing way too much time on turning the television on. He waits though, and as I risk a glance in his direction, a dark grin forms on his lips.

  “What?” I shift uncomfortably on the spot, straightening my posture.

  “You flirted with a sixteen-year-old kid to get him to deliver your pizza?”

  I cough out my outrage, “I did no such thing.”

  I did. Of course I did. No crime in making someone feel good to help you out. It’s a win-win.

  “Frankly, I’m offended you think I would engage in such unsavory behavior.”

  Raising a single eyebrow, he shakes his head in feigned reproach. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he smirks. “Using your pretty face and tight little body to manipulate that helpless boy.”

  I don’t attempt to stop the laugh that works its way through my body.

  I roll my eyes, twisting my head to watch him move around the apartment. “He’s hardly helpless. I smiled at him, maybe threw in a wink. A simple exchange of pleasantries.”

  Grabbing his sweats and a shirt from his dresser, he laughs. “Pleasantries, right. Just as long as you know you own the starring role in every wet dream he has going forward."

  The look of satisfaction that crosses his face tells me my look of complete horror was the reaction he was looking for.

  "Like you’re innocent? I've seen how you interact with Karen. The way you lean in when you’re speaking to her, getting all this" —I gesture to his large frame with a flick of my wrist— "up in her space. Making her blush," I pause, a triumphant grin slicing across my face. "And you still don't get your pizza delivered. Rookie."

  Moving toward the bathroom, his shoulders vibrate with silent laughter. "That is true. But she always works at not charging me.”

  My jaw drops. “You don’t have to pay?”

  Leaning against the door of the bathroom, a shy smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “I said she tries. She’s a single mom, working her ass off to provide for her kids. You’ll never see me taking from her pocket.”

  Words fail me and locked in an intense stare, my heart fires with something I’m not quite sure I’m ready to feel again.

  Luca St. Kelly is one fortuitous surprise. Just when I think I have him figured out, he shocks the hell out of me with the kindness in his heart. He’s beautiful, there’s no denying that. Definitely loyal. Genuine, for sure. Brutally honest. But the tender decency within his soul might very well be his defining attribute. Likely the most attractive anyway.

  I smile to myself, my eyes losing focus. “Saint Kelly.” The words are followed by my own light chuckle. “And here I was thinking you were a lowly superhero.”

  His head turns with the thick barrel of his laughter. It’s a nice sound. Rich. Heavy in the way it scores along his vocal cords. Traveling through his entire body, starting at his very core.

  The sound dies down, and we’re left with only the addicted snare of one another’s gaze. Unlike times before, this one isn’t fueled by lust. It’s bound by an intensity that has shocked us both into stillness. Afraid that the slightest movement will pull us from the moment we’v
e told ourselves we should fight against.

  I barely recall the ability of breathing. I don’t know what we’re doing any more than Luca does.

  I do know that I’m scared of this moving further. Again. Of being caught up in the tension. Of being unable to control my baser needs. To refute the longing I feel to be touched, to be loved. And not by just anyone. By him. Only him. Because in the end, all I’d be left with is the aching bite of his rejection.

  I do know that I’m scared of this ending without an indication of what it all actually means. Of us pushing away the storm brewing without a thought as to why this keeps happening.

  His body straightens from the doorjamb, and my skin prickles in anticipation. He takes a step forward as a loud knock sounds at the front door, shattering the moment like a sheet of glass. Falling around us in dangerous shards, and the only thing we can do is watch on. Look on in shame, in irritation, in regret as our indecision and disregard for our own feelings cuts the air around us.

  Clearing his throat, Luca retracts the single step he’d taken in my direction. “I’ll clean up. Only be a minute.” He pauses for a split second more before smiling tightly, fist lightly tapping against the wall on a repentant nod.

  The bathroom door closes with a soft but deafening click. I stare at the space he only seconds before commanded, the room suddenly feeling empty, morose almost.

  Exhaling heavily, I stand, grabbing my purse and painting a giant grin on my face as I open the door for Tyler.

  His phone vibrates against the coffee table a fourth time, and I lean forward, pressing pause on the remote before turning to him.

  He ignores me, eyes fixed onto the frozen image of the television.

  “Dude.”

  Leaning forward, he drops his beer onto the coffee table before turning his full attention back to me. “Dude,” he echoes.

  “You gonna get that?” I gesture at his cell.

  Bottom lip tipped out, he shakes his head. “Nah.”

  Sighing, I turn on the couch, crossing my legs under my ass to stare him down. “Scary movies are made through sound effects,” I begin, and he waits with an arched brow for me to continue. “The creepy music. The silence. The creaks, cracks, and whispers. Your phone is giving me the absolute heeby jeebs.”

  His eyes widen at my peculiar declaration and I groan in irritation. “The movie lets me know when to prepare, when to tense, when to cover my eyes.”

  A small smirk plays at his lips and I want to reach over and slap it off.

  “Ain’t important,” he concedes, reaching for his cell to switch it off. Throwing it onto the couch, he snatches the remote from my hand to play the movie.

  I force my eyes to linger on the TV, working my hardest to look engaged, to keep up with the now irrelevant storyline. Because all that matters to me in that moment is the device only inches from my leg. The insight into Luca’s life. The desperation that would drive someone to call incessantly, needing some form of contact. Was it a woman? A current fling? Booty call?

  I know it’s none of my business, but it doesn’t stop the green-eyed monster I refuse to admit that lives inside me, from poking me in the ribs. Forcing me to shift uncomfortably on my spot, feeling unceremoniously jaded, when in truth, I have no right to feel a single fucking thing.

  “Just a ghost from my past, Crazy Girl,” he offers softly, reading into my internal turmoil. The quiet burr of his voice feels almost like an apology, an assurance that there’s no one else.

  Relief courses through my body, and I feel ashamed, embarrassed at how badly I needed his tender reassurance.

  “I’m sorry,” I breathe out apologetically, eyes closing over in defeat.

  “Frankie.” He nudges my arm. “Just because we agreed to be friends doesn’t mean everything we’ve been feeling has disappeared into nothing. You got nothing to be sorry for.”

  Quiet descends, and confident that nothing else needs to be said, I turn back to the TV. But his voice breaks the silence, and once again I’m caught up in him.

  “Ever since I went home to bury my mom, I’ve had people I’d long since buried in my past feelin’ the need to haunt me. Not ready to open myself up to that. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

  The haunted tone in his voice gives away the pain these ghosts bring him.

  “It’s painful,” I state, but his head tips to the side in disagreement.

  Moving his body to lean his back against the armrest, he watches me for a beat, his head resting against his hand. “Not so much pain. Not anymore anyway. More… just an overwhelming sense of regret. Of self-contempt. Prefer that shit to stay buried in the past, not rehash who I was once upon a time.”

  We all have transgressions in our pasts, some we’re making in the present, and I imagine we’ll continue making them in the future too. Sure, we learn from our errors. Doesn’t mean we can’t and won’t make mistakes.

  I get Luca’s want to entomb the memories that plague him. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do, but I sure as shit wish I knew how to save myself from the bombardment of experiencing my pain over and over again.

  “What about you?” he tests, his gaze boring so heavily into mine I’d swear he could see all the misgivings in my soul. “What hurt you so bad you ran back home, fighting for the love of family to spike the fire in those sad eyes?”

  “I’m not sad,” I argue meekly.

  Blinking slowly, he rubs a finger gently across his bottom lip. “Didn’t mean it about your person, Frankie. I didn’t mean you were weak. There’s unhappiness in your eyes, in the way you smile. The way you work to make everyone around you feel this fierce level of love and joy, when inside, you’re drowning in heartbreak.”

  Sniffing loudly, I look down, scared to show him the uncertainty and pain in my eyes. Focusing on a loose thread on the sweater covering my body, I twist it around my finger, cutting off the circulation, only to release it again.

  We’re friends. Or at least trying to be. And he’s right. I’m drowning. Suffocating in my misery, hiding behind a façade that seems to be cracking day by day. I don’t know how much longer I can keep standing with the weight of my failures on my shoulder. Soon enough my knees will buckle, and I fall. Problem being, no one knows the extent of the agony that is rotting me from the inside out. Which means, in the end, I’ll have no one there to pick me up.

  Glancing up, I watch him, watch me, the movie long forgotten. Our body language is one of complete focus, each of us having shifted on the couch to face the other. Frenchie nestled between us, snoring softly.

  “Ever been in love?”

  He nods. “Once.”

  "Ever had your heart broken? Actually, no," I stop him from answering. "Decimated?” I correct. “Had the love that offered you so much life, that promised you everything good, massacred without a care as to how you would survive? Sounds dramatic." I worry, shrugging at the guarded look on his face.

  He shakes his head, offering a veil of reassurance for me to continue. He chooses not to speak, likely feeling words are unnecessary but urging me to continue all the same.

  "I look at Darci and Bennett. Archer and Annabelle. Jake and Aubrey. All of them, and once upon a time, I would've sworn that was me," I hiss, the tremble in my throat pissing me off more than I care to admit. Coughing, I clear the shake in my voice. "But how could it be? Because I can't imagine Bennett, Archer, Jake hacking their way into their girls’ hearts. Carving their path of destruction without regard."

  Grabbing my beer, I take a deep swallow, trying in vain to slow the rapid beat of my heart, if only for a second.

  "Where'd you meet him?"

  Pulling the bottle from my lips, I look over in question. "Brandon?"

  He nods and shrugs all in a single breath.

  "Coffee shop. I was working there. He'd come in. Flirt. I’d do it right back. That lasted a few weeks before he asked me out. It was a whirlwind. Spent an entire week tied up in one another. We didn't even fuck. It was just us hanging out, gett
ing to know one another. I’d never felt that kind of connection before.” I linger on that last sentence, considering that that’s no longer true. The jolt I felt on seeing Luca that first time, and every time since then has been electric. Intense in a way that you’d swear it was make believe. A fairy tale meant for a sappy romance novel.

  “He went away for work for a few weeks after that,” I continue. “And Jesus, my heart ached with how much I missed him. How stupid is that? I'd known him for seven days."

  Taking the beer from my hands, he takes a swig. "Can't regret something you have no control over."

  Jerking my shoulders up in disregard, I run my palm over Frenchie's silky fur, watching his leg twitch in sleep. "He was an investment banker, worked long hours. Traveled a lot. Or so I thought. We were together for a year. Lived together in some fancy apartment he owned. God," I grimace. "Makes me sick just thinking about it."

  "He cheated?" He hands the beer back and I take it, immediately pulling the label away in agitation.

  My teeth gnaw at my bottom lip, hot tears filling my eyes. "I guess so. But can you be cheated on when someone's already married? Are you allowed to claim that? When really, in the end, you're the other woman? Even if it is without your knowledge."

  The ease in his posture dissipates within seconds, his back ramrod straight, fire spiking in the clear blue of his eyes. "What?"

  It's impossible to ignore the accusation in his tone and no longer able to meet his eyes, I drop my face. My fingernails scratch at the glass bottle, damp shards of the label ripping away with my anger.

  "You didn't know?"

  I shake my head vigorously.

  "How?" The interrogation in his question pauses my attack on the now empty beer, and I look up, allowing the tears brimming in my eye sockets to rush along my cheeks. "Because I'm a fucking fool."