Chapter 3
Rebek
E ek.
I stared at my reflection, hands smoothing out invisible wrinkles on the skirt of my yellow floral sundress. My fingers trembled slightly, and I clenched them into fists to steady myself. “Today is the day,” I whispered to the mirror, as if saying it aloud would make it true. “You’re not scatterbrained. You’re capable. You’ve got this.”
The words felt hollow, but I forced a smile anyway, tilting my head to examine my makeup. Soft pink lips, just enough mascara to make my lashes pop—simple, polished. Grown-up. I wasn’t about to show up looking like I’d rolled out of bed and tripped into an art studio explosion. Not today.
Today I had someone to impress.
Luca Wright’s name had been printed in bold letters on the email about the planning committee, and the second I saw it, my stomach flipped so hard I nearly dropped my phone. Him . Of all people. The hunky, stern lawyer who’d breezed into town like he owned the place, helped Dwight with his contract, and then vanished. I hadn’t seen him since, but the memory of his commanding presence lingered in my mind like a stubborn paint stain on a favorite shirt.
Not only hunky—he was a Daddy Dom.
Daddy Doms didn’t suffer fools gladly. And sadly, I was a bit of a fool.
"Stop," I muttered under my breath, giving myself one last once-over before stepping away from the mirror. I grabbed my tote bag—already packed with my notebook, pens, and far too many sticky notes—and slung it over my shoulder. “You’re not a fool. You’re going to prove to everyone you can handle this.”
I grabbed an ice latte from Marie’s on the way over, and approached the community center, the building looming closer with every step. My heart pounded against my ribs, each beat an irritating reminder of how nervous I was. By the time I reached the door, my palms were damp, and I wiped them discreetly on my dress, and took another drink of my coffee.
“Be calm. Be collected. Be adult,” I whispered under my breath. The mantra barely stuck as I pushed the door open.
"Rebekah!" Lucy’s voice jolted me back to reality. She stood just inside the entrance, grinning in that easy, cheerful way of hers. “I didn’t know you’d be here! This is great—we’ll totally crush this fundraiser together.”
"Lucy!" Relief washed over me, though I tried to keep my expression neutral, professional. "Yeah, um, I’m helping out with . . . decorations and stuff." I gestured vaguely with my free hand, hoping she wouldn’t notice the slight shake in my fingers.
"Perfect. Let’s tag-team this." Lucy linked her arm through mine, practically dragging me into the main hall. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting everything in a pale, washed-out glow. Tables lined the edges of the room, piled with supplies, while folding chairs formed a loose ring near the center. Volunteers bustled around, chatting in low voices or sorting through papers.
"Okay," I murmured, mostly to myself. I straightened my posture, squaring my shoulders. "Calm. Collected. Adult."
I wished I wasn’t like this. So useless at everything except being a Little.
"That’s the spirit," Lucy said, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze. Together, we approached Pauline, the event coordinator, who stood by a table covered in clipboards and spreadsheets. Pauline greeted us with her usual brisk efficiency, handing me a box of name tags and pointing toward the raffle tickets stacked to the side.
"Here, let’s get these organized," Lucy said, grabbing a stack of program flyers and tucking them under her arm. I nodded, carefully balancing the name tag box in one hand and the raffle tickets in the other.
"Thanks," I murmured, glancing at her. Her confidence was almost contagious, and for a brief moment, I believed I could do this without screwing up.
"Hey," she said, leaning closer. "You’re doing fine. Don’t overthink it. Just breathe, okay?"
"Right. Breathe." I exhaled slowly, the tension in my chest easing ever so slightly. My grip on the boxes steadied, and I focused on the task at hand.
As I set the box of name tags down on the folding table, my eyes drifted across the room—and there he was. Luca Wright.
He stood tall among a small group of volunteers, his posture effortlessly commanding without even trying. His crisp white shirt looked as though it had been tailored just for him, sleeves rolled up enough to expose strong forearms dusted with just the right amount of dark hair. Every word he spoke was deliberate, smooth, and authoritative. I listened for a moment, slightly lost in the deep, resonant sound of him, as he explained sponsorship packages and donation tiers. The volunteers around him nodded along, hanging onto his every syllable.
I froze, gripping the edge of the table for support. My chest tightened in anticipation, and heat rushed to my cheeks when his gaze suddenly flicked up, locking onto mine.
My heart somersaulted, landing somewhere near my throat. His deep brown eyes were calm, assessing, as if he was quietly dissecting every detail about me in a single glance. For a moment, his stern expression softened, the corners of his mouth curving into something almost resembling a smile. Almost.
Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the warmth was gone. He returned his attention to the crowd spread out him, moving onto some other detail of the upcoming fundraiser.
I exhaled shakily, realizing I’d been holding my breath. My pulse quickened, a mix of nerves and something else—a spark of determination.
"Okay," I whispered under my breath, tugging at the hem of my floral dress. "You can do this."
I straightened my spine, rolling my shoulders back as if I could physically force myself into being composed. I rehearsed the greeting in my head one last time.
Hi, Luca, nice to see you again. I’m so excited to help coordinate the creative elements of the fundraiser.
Yes. That sounded mature. Professional. Definitely not like someone who’d spent all morning psyching herself up in front of a mirror.
With an air of what I hoped was poise, I smoothed my dress one final time and stepped forward. As I approached, he glanced up again, his eyes sharp and focused, like he’d already noticed me coming and was waiting to see what I’d do next.
Here goes nothing . I opened my mouth, ready to deliver my perfectly practiced line.
"Uh—hey—um—hi!"
The words tumbled out of me in a chaotic mess, completely derailing the polished introduction I’d planned. My voice cracked on the last syllable, and I winced internally as the blush creeping up my neck made its inevitable march to my face.
Luca arched a brow, his expression shifting into something faintly amused. His lips quirked, but only slightly, as though he was fighting the urge to laugh.
"Hello," he said simply, his tone measured and just teasing enough to make my stomach flip.
"Nice to see you again I’m helping to excite the fundraiser."
Holy crap.
What did I say?
My fingers twisted together nervously in front of me, and I forced an awkward laugh that sounded far too high-pitched to belong to an actual adult. Calm. Collected. Adult , I mentally screamed at myself.
Thankfully, he ignored my garbled sentence.
"Rebekah, isn’t it?" he asked, setting down the papers in his hand. His gaze stayed steady on me, and I swore I could feel it settle over my skin like a weight.
"Y-yeah," I stammered, my tongue tripping over itself. My mind scrambled for something coherent to say, but all I could think about was how ridiculously good he looked standing there with his sleeves rolled up and that knowing glint in his eyes.
"Good to see you here," he said, and though his words were polite, there was a hint of something deeper in his tone.
"Yeah, um, good to see you, too," I managed, though my voice still wavered. I wanted to sink into the floor and disappear, but instead, I clutched the hem of my dress tighter, forcing myself to hold his gaze.
"Well," he said after a beat, his brow lifting slightly in expectation. "Was there something you needed?"
"Needed? Oh! Uh, no—I mean, yes! I just…" My words trailed off as my brain failed to catch up with my mouth. Why is forming sentences suddenly impossible?
"Take your time," he said, leaning back slightly and crossing his arms. His tone was neutral, but there was a subtle challenge in his posture, like he enjoyed watching me try to pull myself together.
"Right," I said, clearing my throat and squaring my shoulders. "I just wanted to . . . introduce myself properly. You know, since we’re both working on the fundraiser and all."
"Of course," he said smoothly, though the faint amusement in his eyes hadn’t faded. "It’s good to meet you—properly, then. You’re the artist from the craft store downtown, aren’t you? I remember seeing you there a few months ago before I moved here. You seemed . . . very focused."
My stomach did a little flip, and my cheeks burned at the memory. I had been crouched on the floor that day, comparing paint tubes while muttering to myself like a madwoman. Not exactly my finest hour.
"That’s me," I said, forcing a lightness into my tone. "The craft store is kind of my second home. I mean in a way it’s my first home.”
He looked confused.
“I live above it,” I explained.
“Ah. Makes sense.”
“It’s usually chaos in there, so the day you were in it was probably, I don’t know, messy? I doubt I was that focused."
"True," he admitted with a faint curve of his lips. "It does tend to be . . . disorganized. But you seemed like you were handling it."
Was that a compliment? It sounded like one. My heart fluttered all the same, and I straightened my spine, determined to seem every bit as composed as he was. "Well, it’s part of the job," I said with a small shrug. "It’s my artistic temperament—or at least, that’s what I tell myself when everything’s a mess."
"Artistic temperament, eh? His gaze lingered on me for a beat longer than necessary. And then, just as quickly, he shifted his attention back to his clipboard. "Good to know."
As if on cue, Pauline called the meeting to order, her voice rising above the hubbub. Volunteers began gathering in a loose circle near the front of the room. I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on me. This was my chance to prove I belonged here—not just to Luca, but to everyone.
"Excuse me," I said softly, stepping away from him to join the forming group. He didn’t stop me, but I felt his eyes follow me until I found a spot near the center.
Pauline gave a brief rundown of the fundraiser’s logistics, touching on sponsorships, ticket sales, and volunteer roles. When she mentioned needing someone to handle the decoration booths—a key component of the event—I didn’t hesitate.
"I can do it," I said, my hand shooting up before I could overthink it. A few heads turned in my direction, including Luca’s. My pulse quickened, but I forced myself to speak clearly. "I mean, I’d love to take charge of coordinating the decorations. I’ve already started brainstorming ideas for themes and layouts, and I have a list of materials we’ll need. Plus, I know a few local artists who might want to contribute their work."
"That sounds promising," Pauline said with an encouraging nod. "Do you think you’ll have time to manage all of that?"
"Absolutely," I said firmly, clasping my hands in front of me to hide the slight tremor in my fingers. "I’ve already organized a few initial tasks. For example, I’ve started reaching out to vendors for supplies, and I’ve sketched some booth design options. I can share those with everyone by tomorrow."
"Impressive," Luca murmured, and when I glanced his way, his expression was unreadable but intent. Slowly, he nodded. "I think Rebekah handling the decoration booths makes sense. She clearly has the vision for it."
His approval hit me like a rush of warm air, spreading from my chest to the tips of my fingers. I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips.
"Thank you," I said, meeting his gaze briefly before turning back to Pauline. "I won’t let you down."
"Good," Pauline said briskly, moving on to the next agenda item. But I barely heard her. All I could focus on was the way Luca’s nod had made my nerves settle and my confidence bloom.
The rest of the meeting went without much incident. I listened to the meeting, keeping myself to myself. Luca talked about his plan to secure sponsorship from clients in the city, as well as how he’d be taking control of the management of the project.
He was supremely impressive. Precise. Confident. Full of ideas. Ridiculously smart.
After we were done, he handed out some general jobs to groups of us. I was meant to be chairing a little meeting about the decoration booths, but Lucy’s subtle wave from across the room caught my attention. She pointed toward the boxes of name tags stacked near the door, her eyebrows arching in a silent question.
"Be right back," I whispered, half to myself.
The boxes weren’t far, but they seemed heavier than expected as I bent to scoop them up. My iced latte—half-melted but still sweet and comforting—perched precariously on the top box. Its plastic cup wobbled slightly, but I steadied it with one hand, determined not to make two trips.
"Got it," I muttered under my breath, clutching the stack closer to my chest as I turned sharply toward the tables where Lucy waited.
I didn’t see the chair leg until it was too late.
My foot snagged, sending me forward with an awkward lurch. The boxes shifted wildly in my arms, and I barely had time to gasp before the inevitable happened. The iced latte launched itself into the air, spinning almost gracefully in slow motion.
I could only stare in horror as it arced down, the lid popping off mid-flight, and landed squarely against Luca Wright’s chest with a sickening splat. Cold coffee exploded over his pristine white shirt and dark navy suit jacket, seeping into the material with cruel efficiency.
"God—" I choked out, dropping the boxes with a thud as the room seemed to hold its collective breath.
For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly, the sound suddenly deafening in the silence.
"Mr. Wright, I am so—" My words tumbled out as I dove for the nearest table, snatching up a handful of napkins from the refreshment station. My hands were shaking so badly that I nearly dropped them twice before reaching him.
"Let me clean—" I stammered, stepping closer and dabbing at the spreading stain on his chest. The napkins did little more than smear the coffee further across the fabric, and my mortification deepened with every second. "I am so sorry. I didn’t mean—"
"Rebekah."
His voice was calm, measured, but it cut through my frantic apologies like a knife. I froze, my hands hovering just inches from his shirt. Slowly, I looked up, meeting his gaze.
Luca’s expression wasn’t angry—at least not overtly—but the slight narrowing of his eyes and the firm set of his jaw sent a wave of heat crawling up my neck. I’d seen him nod approvingly earlier, his demeanor inviting, even encouraging. This? This was something else entirely.
"Stop," he said evenly, glancing briefly at the damp napkins crumpled in my trembling hands. "You’re making it worse."
"Right. Of course." I stepped back immediately, clutching the ruined napkins against my chest. My heart pounded in my ears as I glanced around the room, desperate for something—anything—to distract from the humiliation burning inside me.
The other volunteers were doing their best to look busy, but I caught a few sidelong glances, a couple of poorly concealed smirks. Lucy stood by the table we’d been organizing, biting her lip as if unsure whether to laugh or come to my rescue.
"Let me . . ." I gestured helplessly toward the mess on the floor where the rest of the coffee had pooled, dark and sticky against the linoleum. "I’ll clean this up. Right now. I’ll—"
Luca’s voice sliced through the heavy silence like a blade, low and controlled. “Rebekah,” he said, my name clipped but calm on his tongue. His tone didn’t rise, yet it carried more weight than any raised voice could have. “It’s all right. Accidents happen.” He paused, his sharp gaze locking onto mine with unnerving precision. “But next time, slow down. If you’re juggling too much, ask for help.”
The measured cadence of his words sent a ripple of something unexpected through me—equal parts humiliation and . . . something else. Something that made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I swallowed thickly, my cheeks burning as if his gaze alone had set them aflame.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, though the apology felt inadequate, weak. My hands twisted the damp napkin in my grip as my mind churned with an embarrassing mix of emotions: shame curling low in my stomach, prickling irritation at being scolded like a child, and—God help me—a spark of something deeper, something that left me breathless. The quiet authority in his voice unsettled me in ways I didn’t entirely understand.
He didn’t say anything else; he didn’t need to. His eyes lingered on me for just a moment longer, then flicked to the stain spreading across his shirt. A muscle ticked in his jaw, but otherwise, his expression remained unreadable. That only made it worse.
I wanted to disappear into the floor, but instead, I did what I always did when cornered: I spoke before thinking.
“I had it under control!” The words shot out sharper than I meant, the bite in my tone betraying the knot of wounded pride lodged in my throat. “I always make a mess of everything!”
Then, before anyone else could say anything, I ran from the community center, tears pricking my cheeks.