Chapter 7
Rebekah
I could still feel his lips on mine. Warm, soft, passionate.
Luca Wright was such a controlled, precise person. But that’s not the way he kissed. Not even close.
Th moment our lips touched, it was like all those layers of restraint and discipline melted away.
Ohhh just thinking back to it was making me warm and squirmy. He’d been so strong, so insistent. His hands had gripped me like I belonged to him, like I was his property. In my dreams, I was right back with him, his plaything, his to do with as he pleased . . .
Shame dreams don’t last.
I woke tangled in my sheets, breath hitching as the memory of Luca’s lips pressed against mine hit me like a freight train. My fingers brushed over my own mouth, hesitant and searching, as if I could somehow recapture the phantom heat of that moment.
Had it been a mistake? As soon as we finished, both of us had acted like it was the worst thing that we’d ever done. But why? The question gnawed at me as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare toes curling against the cool wooden floor.
I’d basically begged him to be my Daddy. And it felt like he’d been into it, right up to the point where he wasn’t.
Then, we just carried on with our work like nothing had happened.
I tried convincing myself it didn’t matter. That it was a fluke, a spark that had already fizzled out. But deep down, I couldn’t shake how right it had felt. How solid he’d been beneath my fingertips, his presence grounding me in a way I hadn’t known I needed.
“Get it together, Rebekah,” I muttered, shaking my head and forcing myself into motion. There was no time to dwell on things that couldn’t be undone. I had work to do.
T he Treasure Chest was already buzzing by the time I stumbled in, tote bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder. Bright rows of yarn skeins, paint sets, and craft kits greeted me, all demanding attention. Margaret stood by the register, arms crossed and brow furrowed in what I liked to call her “Rebekah-is-late-again” stance.
Not fair, really, seeing as I was on time today.
"Morning," I said quickly, ducking past her toward the storeroom without waiting for a response.
"Goof morning, Rebekah," she replied, “good to see you.”
"You too!" The words came out too fast, too chirpy, but I didn’t dare stop moving long enough to see her reaction. Instead, I threw myself straight into sorting through the mountain of new inventory that had arrived last night—a distraction I desperately needed.
It worked, for a while. Opening boxes and cataloging supplies gave my hands something to do, kept my mind from wandering back to Luca’s steady gaze or the way his voice had dipped when he whispered my name. But then, during my break, I made the mistake of pulling out my fundraiser folder.
Yesterday, Luca and I had mapped out a timeline. I had supplies to order and decorations to plan. I shouldn’t really be working on this at The Treasure Trove, but if I didn’t it would be a struggle to do all the work that needed to be done.
My plan was to integrate all the different things that the community center offered to Small Falls; coffee mornings for older folks, toddler bounce, youth club for teenagers, the Littles League, jiu-jitsu lessons, even a dog grooming group for local pooch lovers.
But it was easier said than done.
I started to sketch a few things out, started to get my creative juices flowing. I wouldn’t do it for long, would just get a couple of—
"Rebekah." Margaret’s voice cut through the quiet like the snap of a rubber band. I looked up, startled, to find her standing over me, arms crossed again—this time with an unmistakable air of exasperation.
"Yes?" I asked, trying (and failing) to sound innocent as I shoved the folder behind my coffee cup.
"Do you know where you are right now?" Her tone wasn’t harsh, but it carried a weight that made my stomach twist.
"Uh . . . The Treasure Trove?" I offered weakly.
"Correct. And do you remember what we sell here?"
"Craft supplies?"
"Exactly. Which means your job is to help customers with their craft supply needs—not to bury yourself in paperwork for whatever side project you’ve got going on." She gestured pointedly at the hidden folder, his expression softening just a fraction. "Look, I know you’re passionate about this fundraiser, and that’s great. I love the community center as much as everyone else in this town. But you can’t keep splitting your focus like this during work hours. We need you here, present."
Heat rushed to my cheeks, equal parts guilt and humiliation. "I’m sorry," I mumbled, fumbling to close the folder and shove it back into my bag. "It won’t happen again."
"Good," she said firmly, though there was no malice in her voice. "Because if it does, we’re going to have a bigger problem than a few missed sales." With that, she turned and walked away, leaving me alone with my shame—and the faint buzz of nerves still humming beneath my skin.
I sank deeper into my chair, staring blankly at the scattered papers in my bag. As much as I hated to admit it, she was right. I’d been so consumed by the fundraiser—and, okay, maybe a certain lawyer—that I’d let everything else slip through the cracks. If I didn’t pull myself together soon, I was going to lose more than just Margaret’s patience.
Somehow I managed to focus for the next few hours. It was a busy morning, and I split my time between restocking, and helping when the line of customers got too big in the store. Honestly, it was a welcome break from worrying about the fundraiser, and thinking about Luca.
Obviously, when the time came for my lunch break, I did do some work on the fundraiser.
I sat, alone, in the break room, and started to work through my tasks.
First, I sent some messages to a group chat I’d set up for decorating the community center, organizing the a work session at the weekend to get started on garlands and booth signs. Then, I went through the plan of where the stalls were going to be. We’d had lots of interest from local business who wanted to sell goods at the event, and had even started to collect some sponsorship. Luca had mentioned that it would be a good idea to ring through everyone who had agreed to a sponsorship, and ask them whether they wanted to be the main sponsor for the event.
I decided to start making those calls now. I started looking through my documents for the sponsor forms, but I couldn’t find it.
Oh no.
My hands trembled as I flipped through the pile of papers on the table, my vision blurring as panic clawed at the edges of my mind. Booth decoration updates? Check. Volunteer schedules? Check. Sponsor forms—where were the sponsor forms?
I shoved aside a half-empty coffee cup, nearly knocking it to the floor in my haste. I definitely didn’t need to spill more coffee now.
My stomach twisted as I combed through the stack again, slower this time, praying I had just overlooked it. But the pristine white folder with the contracts was gone.
I needed those forms. They had everything. Contact details. Sponsorship amounts. Even some bank details. If I’d somehow lost them . . .
"Okay," I muttered under my breath, trying to keep the rising tide of anxiety at bay. "Think, Rebekah. Think."
Oh no. Had I left it at Luca’s place?
I retraced my steps in my head: I’d taken the folder to Luca’s place, then after the meeting (and the kiss) I’d dropped by the community center to check what needed to be done, and while I was there, I’d looked through the sponsors, while planning where the stalls would go. So I must have brought the folder to the community center.
It must still be there. It had to be.
But I couldn’t remember where it was. I didn’t know
"Rebekah?" Margaret’s voice cut through my frantic thoughts like a knife. I glanced up to see her standing behind the register, one eyebrow raised, her expression lined with weariness. She didn’t say anything else, but the look on her face was enough: Why are you still distracted?
"Sorry!" I called out, forcing an apologetic smile that probably looked more like a grimace. Without waiting for a response, I ducked back into the stockroom, heart pounding.
I couldn’t wait until closing. That folder was everything. If I lost those contracts . . . No, I didn’t even want to think about it.
"Clock out now," I whispered to myself, steeling my resolve. Grabbing my bag, I slung it over my shoulder and headed toward the front. Margaret caught sight of me as I crossed the threshold, her disapproving frown deepening.
"Rebekah," she said sharply, her tone low but firm enough to stop me in my tracks. "Where do you think you’re going?"
"Emergency," I blurted out, not slowing down. "I’ll make up the hours tomorrow, I promise!"
"Rebekah—" Her words faded behind me as I pushed open the door, the faint chime of the bell marking my hurried exit.
"Please still be there," I murmured to myself, gripping the bag strap so tightly my fingers ached. "Please, please, please."
T he heavy door creaked as I pushed it open, the faint scent of paint and sawdust greeting me. The community center was quiet—eerily so—with only a few dim overhead lights flickering weakly against the shadows. My stomach churned as I stepped inside, the echo of my boots against the polished floor amplifying the anxious thrum in my chest.
The main hall was a chaotic mess. Boxes were stacked haphazardly along the walls, overflowing with streamers, half-used rolls of tape, and crumpled flyers. A ladder leaned precariously near a corner where someone had started hanging decorations but clearly hadn’t finished.
It was as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for me to sort through its disarray. The meeting I’d just organized would be a good start, but we had a ton of work to do.
"Okay," I whispered to myself, dropping my bag onto the nearest chair. My fingers trembled as I flipped open the lid of the first box. Papers spilled out, some sliding to the floor in a flurry of pastel colors. Not what I needed. I shoved them back inside without bothering to refold them, moving to the next box.
"Come on, come on," I muttered under my breath, tearing into another stack of misplaced craft supplies. No folder. My pulse quickened, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. I could feel it rising, coiling tight in my chest like a spring ready to snap. If that folder was gone, if those contracts had disappeared—
"Don’t think about it," I said aloud, trying to steady my racing thoughts. But even as I forced myself to dig through another box, the weight pressing down on my ribcage only grew heavier.
A string of stray tinsel clung to my sleeve as I rummaged deeper, and I yanked it off with more force than necessary. "Ugh!" My voice cracked with frustration as I slammed the box shut, closing my eyes for a moment to keep tears at bay. This was too much. Everything felt too much.
"Rebekah?"
The deep timbre of his voice froze me mid-motion, my fist still clutching a handful of loose papers. Slowly, I turned toward the sound, my breath catching when I spotted him at the end of the hallway. Even in the low light, Luca’s broad frame was unmistakable—strong shoulders silhouetted against the faint glow of an exit sign. He stood there, hands tucked casually in his pockets, eyes gleaming with pleasant surprise.
My heart stumbled over itself, skipping beats in an erratic rhythm. Embarrassment flooded me, hot and unwelcome, as I realized how frantic I must have looked, crouched in the middle of this disaster zone. I straightened quickly, brushing my hands on my jeans like that might somehow make me seem less . . . unhinged.
"Hi," I croaked, my voice thin and shaky. His piercing gaze never wavered as he stepped forward.
"Do you need help?" His tone was calm, measured—completely devoid of judgment—but that only made the shame burn hotter in my cheeks. “Seems like you’ve lost something.”
"I—" My throat tightened around the words. I wanted to say no, to wave him off and pretend I had everything under control. But the truth was glaring and undeniable. "I can’t find the sponsor folder," I admitted, barely above a whisper.
There. It was out. The weight of the confession hung between us, unbearable yet oddly freeing. I dared a glance at his face, expecting a flicker of irritation or maybe even pity, but his expression remained steady. Unreadable.
“It’s here, for sure?”
“Either here or at your place. I think I left it here though.”
“Good. Then we’ll find it,” he said simply.
“Maybe someone tried to help? Tidied it away in a box?”
"Good thinking. Let’s start here." He gestured to the nearest table, his voice carrying that same quietly commanding tone that made my stomach flip. Before I could protest, he moved past me, grabbing one of the boxes and setting it on the tabletop.
"Spread everything out," he instructed, his attention already focused on the task at hand. "We’ll go pile by pile until we find it."
I hesitated for a second, watching him with wide eyes. There was no hesitation in his movements, no trace of annoyance or impatience—only a calm certainty that made the knots in my chest loosen just slightly. Swallowing hard, I nodded and stepped closer, joining him at the table.
His hands moved with quiet precision, lifting a stack of papers from the box between us and lining them up neatly on the table.
"Start with these," he said, his voice low but steady. "Separate them into categories—community center contracts, fundraiser details, everything else. Keep it simple."
I nodded, swallowing against the lump in my throat as I reached for the first haphazard pile. My fingers trembled slightly, fumbling with the edges of the pages. The disarray of it all—boxes spilling over, papers flung every which way—mirrored the churn of panic in my chest.
"Rebekah." Luca’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts like a thread pulling taut. I froze, glancing up to meet his gaze. He wasn’t looking at the mess—he was looking at me. His expression softened just enough to make my breath hitch.
"One thing at a time." He reached across the table and rested his hand lightly on my wrist. Warmth radiated from his touch, anchoring me to the moment. "Breathe. You’ve got this."
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until then. Slowly, I exhaled, letting the air drag some of the tension out of my shoulders. My pulse slowed under his steady grip, my frantic energy ebbing like a tide receding from the shore.
"Better?" he asked, his thumb brushing just once against the underside of my wrist before he let go.
"Yeah," I breathed, though my heart still fluttered erratically. I ducked my head, focusing on sorting through the papers like he’d instructed. For once, the chaos didn’t feel so insurmountable. With Luca guiding me, the stacks began to take shape: neat piles of forms and flyers, each one systematically checked and set aside.
"Good," he murmured, his approval sparking the strangest sense of pride in my chest. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to overthink it. But as his hand grazed mine while passing me another bundle of papers, I couldn’t help marveling at how effortlessly I fell in line under his direction. How had I ever convinced myself I didn’t need structure? Here I was, thriving on it, the knots in my brain loosening as we worked together.
"Hold on." Luca leaned forward suddenly, his sharp eyes zeroing in on something beneath a crumpled heap of old flyers at the bottom of a box. He tugged at the edge of a folder, sliding it free with a triumphant flick of his wrist. "This it?"
I gasped, reaching for the sponsor folder as if it were a lifeline. Relief crashed over me like a wave, leaving my knees weak. "Yes! Oh my god, yes!" Without thinking, I surged toward him, throwing my arms around his neck.
"Thank you," I whispered fervently, clutching him as tightly as my shaky hands allowed. His body stiffened for a fraction of a second before softening, his arms circling my waist in a warm, steady embrace. The heat of him seeped through my skin, grounding me even further.
"Careful," he murmured, his voice dipping lower, sending a shiver down my spine. The crackling air between us felt electric, charged with something I didn’t dare name. His grip lingered at my waist, firm yet impossibly gentle, as if he was afraid to let go too soon. Or maybe I was the one afraid.
I froze as the realization hit me—my arms were still wrapped around Luca’s neck, and his hands rested securely at my waist. The heat of him was everywhere, stealing the breath from my lungs. My heart thudded wildly against my ribs, each beat growing louder in the charged silence.
"Sorry!" I blurted, jerking backward as if burned. My sudden movement left a cold void where his arms had been, and I stumbled slightly, clutching the sponsor folder to my chest as if it could shield me from my own embarrassment. "I didn’t mean to—"
"Rebekah." His voice cut through my rambling like a velvet blade, quiet but commanding enough to stop me in my tracks. When I dared to look up, his gaze pinned me in place. Those piercing blue eyes weren’t cold or distant, like I feared they might be. No, they burned with something deeper, something that made my stomach flip and my knees tremble.
"I’ve been thinking about our kiss," he said, his tone low and steady, like he was confessing a secret he’d been holding onto for far too long. My breath caught, the chaotic swirl of emotions inside me screeching to a halt as his words sank in. "And despite everything I told you, despite every reason why we shouldn’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it."
My chest tightened, anticipation blooming in the space he’d just cracked wide open. He hadn’t looked away, his intensity unwavering, and I felt myself drawn toward him without meaning to, like gravity pulling me closer.
"Y-you can’t?" I hated how small my voice sounded, shaky and unsure, but there was no hiding the truth from him now. My fingers curled against the folder, trying to ground myself, but it was useless. He was too close, his presence overwhelming in the dim light of the empty community center.
"No," he murmured, stepping forward until there was barely a breath of space between us. My pulse quickened as the shadows played across his sharp features, his expression softened by something achingly vulnerable. "I tried, Rebekah. I tried to focus on work, on keeping things professional, but you . . ." He trailed off, his jaw tightening before he released a slow exhale. "You’re in my head. Every time I see you, every time I think of you, I feel this pull I can’t ignore."
My lips parted, but no sound came out. I wanted to say something, anything, but the weight of his words tangled with my own messy feelings, leaving me speechless. The flickering overhead light buzzed faintly, casting an uneven glow over the scattered boxes and decorations surrounding us, but all I could focus on was him.
"I . . ." I swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "I can’t stop thinking about it either. About you." My voice wavered, but I pushed through, the dam inside me cracking under the pressure of everything I’d been holding back. "I told myself you didn’t want me. That I was just making things harder for you. Is that true? Am I right? You don’t want me?"
"Rebekah," Luca said softly, his voice like a tether drawing me closer. His hand lifted, hesitant at first, before settling lightly on the edge of the folder I clutched so tightly. "You don’t make things harder. You . . ." He paused, searching for the right words. "You challenge me. You unsettle me. And maybe that’s exactly what I want. What I need ."
I blinked up at him, stunned. The carefully composed lawyer who always seemed so in control, admitting he needed someone like me? Someone chaotic and impulsive and messy? It didn’t seem possible, but the way he looked at me, like I was the only thing that mattered in this moment, left no room for doubt.
"All my life, I’ve kept things balanced," he continued, his voice lowering further as he leaned in ever so slightly. "Orderly. Predictable. I never thought I’d want to complicate that with a relationship, especially not with someone so . . . unpredictable." There was no malice in his words, only a hint of dry humor that almost made me smile.
"Gee, thanks," I muttered weakly, my attempt at sarcasm falling flat under the weight of his intensity. His lips twitched, but the seriousness of his expression remained.
"But here we are," he said simply, his free hand brushing against mine where it gripped the folder. The contact sent a jolt of warmth straight through me, and I shivered despite myself. "And I can’t deny how I feel when I’m near you."
I stood there, clutching the sponsor folder like it was a lifeline, my knuckles white against the worn edges of the manila. My pulse thundered in my ears, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away from Luca.
"Say something," he urged softly, his voice like velvet, rich and warm in the cavernous quiet of the community center.
The words were already clawing their way up my throat, jagged and desperate, but my lips felt glued shut.
"I . . ." My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep going. "Every time you’re around, I feel like I can breathe again. Like someone’s finally here to catch me before I fall apart." My breath hitched, and I willed myself to push through the lump rising in my throat. "I keep pretending I’m okay being on my own, handling everything by myself, but I’m not. I’m not okay, Luca. I’m exhausted."
"I can see it." His hand twitched at his side, but he didn’t move closer. He waited, and somehow, that patience broke me open even further.
"I want . . ." The word trembled out of me, barely audible. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for the leap I was about to take. "I want structure. I want guidance. I want security." My throat tightened around the final confession, but I forced it out anyway, raw and trembling. "And I want it from you."
My chest rose and fell quickly, my breaths shallow and uneven. For a split second, I thought I might pass out from sheer mortification, my cheeks blazing with the intensity of my words hanging in the air between us. But I didn’t. I stood there, trembling and vulnerable, refusing to run even though every instinct screamed at me to do exactly that.
Luca’s reaction came slowly, a flicker of something I couldn’t quite name crossing his face. Relief? Longing? Whatever it was, it made his features gentler, softer, in a way that nearly undid me all over again.
"Baby girl," he said, making my heart flutter like a bee trapped in a glass. He lifted his hand, hesitating briefly before cupping my cheek. His palm was warm, steady, and I found myself leaning into it without thinking, letting the simple touch calm the storm spinning inside me. "You think you’re too much," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly across my cheekbone. "But you’re not. Not to me. To me, you’re just enough."
My breath caught, and I stared up at him, unable to process the depth in his gaze. It wasn’t pity or judgment staring back at me—it was understanding. And something deeper. Something fierce.
"Do you know how many times I’ve told myself to stay away from you?" he asked, his voice low and almost rueful, as though he were confessing a sin. "That I had to stay disciplined? That this would be too complicated, too messy?"
"Probably as many times as I’ve convinced myself you didn’t want me," I admitted, my voice still shaking.
"We’ve both been lying to ourselves." His lips curved faintly, more serious than smile, and his hand slid slightly, cradling my face like I was something precious. "Rebekah, I’ve been thinking the same thing. About what you need. About what we could be."
My stomach flipped violently, hope clawing at the edges of my doubt.
His voice was resolute now, solid and unwavering. "I want to be your Daddy, Rebekah. To give you the discipline and the comfort you crave while still cherishing everything about you— the chaos, the creativity, the fire. I won’t try to change you, but I’ll give you the structure you need to thrive. If you’ll let me."
The world tilted, and for a moment, I could only stare at him, reeling from the enormity of what he’d just said. Of what he was offering. My heart pounded so fast I thought it might burst, but I didn’t care.
"Are you sure?" My voice was barely above a whisper, but I had to ask. I had to know this wasn’t some fleeting whim he’d regret later.
He smiled then—small, yes, but warm and certain and entirely him. "I’ve never been more sure of anything."
"If you’re sure, then I’m sure," I whispered. “I want that too.”
Something shifted in his expression—an unreadable mix of emotions flickering behind his dark eyes—and then he leaned in, slow and deliberate. My breath caught as his hand slid from my cheek to cradle the back of my neck, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw with a tenderness that made my stomach flip.
His lips met mine, soft and warm and unhurried. This wasn’t like the first kiss—a desperate collision of need and confusion. This was different. Grounded. Steady. A quiet promise passed between us. I melted into him, my fingers clutching at his shirt as if letting go might break the spell. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer, anchoring me in place.
As Luca's kiss deepened, the world around us began to blur and fade away, leaving only the sensation of his lips moving against mine like a dance of desire. Each brush of his mouth sent shivers down my spine, awakening a fire within me that I never knew existed. His touch was both gentle and possessive, a perfect balance that made my head spin with longing.
With a soft whimper, I parted my lips, inviting him in, and he accepted the invitation eagerly. Our tongues met in a slow, sensual tango, exploring and tasting each other as if committing every detail to memory. I felt a hunger building inside me, an insatiable need for more of him, for the connection that seemed to transcend the physical realm.
Luca's hands roamed over my body with purposeful intent, tracing patterns of heat along my skin that made me arch into his touch. Every caress, every whisper of his fingertips left me breathless and wanting.
The tension I’d been carrying for days—the doubt, the fear, the constant second-guessing—unraveled all at once, leaving nothing but the sensation of his mouth on mine and the solid weight of his embrace. For the first time in what felt like forever, I exhaled fully, sinking into the moment.
When we finally pulled apart, our foreheads rested together, both of us breathing unevenly. My cheeks were flushed, my pulse wild, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Not when Luca was looking at me like that—like I was something precious, something worth holding onto.
"Everything’s different now," I murmured, the words barely audible even to myself. My fingers twisted instinctively into the fabric of his sleeve, unwilling to lose contact.
"Change is good," he said softly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I glanced down, realizing I was still clutching the sponsor folder in my other hand. The absurdity of it—how this ridiculous stack of papers had brought us here—almost made me laugh. Almost.
“You know,” he said. “Now we found those contracts . . . there’s another one we’re going to need.”
“Another one?”
It took me a full ten seconds to work out what he meant. “Oooohhh, Daddy,” I said, trying out the word for the first time, “I can’t wait for you yo read all my small print.”
Then, in a moment that I felt like I’d never forget, Luca grinned widely, and laughed hard.