Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
LUCA
Grimacing at the clock on his dash—shit, he was so late—Luca hurriedly parked on the dark street in front of his house.
He jogged up the front walk.
Warm, yellow lights glowed from his living room. The curtains were open, giving him a picture-perfect view of Olivia curled up on the couch.
She looked like a timeless marble sculpture, and the beauty of it made him stop in his tracks in the dark.
Her long hair framed her face like rivers of sunset rays. The elegance of her legs tucked under her and her arm posed on his couch in thought looked like an old painting you’d see in a museum.
This is probably creepy.
But he wanted a moment to just really look at her. He normally had to do everything he could to avoid staring at her.
She wore his flannel shirt that he kept in the kitchen. It was oversized on her, and something primal in him thrummed at the sight.
New fantasy unlocked.
He slowly walked closer to the front porch, savoring the last bits of the view. To his horror, he realized she was sobbing. Her hand was over her mouth muffling her cries as she curled into a ball. The cascade of her hair curtained around her knees.
An initial jolt of panic made him think about AB. No, she would have called if there was a problem.
He recognized this kind of crying—the overwhelmed weight of the world on your shoulders, the nothing’s-gone-right, hopeless feeling.
She wiped at her eyes with the flannel sleeve.
My god.
She was beautiful, even when she cried, her bottom lip pushed out, tracks of tears running down her cheeks. He wanted to pull her in and hold her forever as he took the steps two at a time.
He tried the front door handle and was pleased to see it was locked.
Good. He wanted both of them safe.
He unlocked the front door, his eyes immediately went to the couch but not finding her there.
Rattling coming from the kitchen told him that she’d moved there.
“Hi,” she called with a forced, cheerful voice. Tears echoed in it.
“Hey,” he said quietly, knowing AB would be asleep, and toed off his work shoes. He quietly joined her in the kitchen.
“AB did great for bedtime. Especially brushing her teeth, we went the full two minutes.” She stuffed her things in her bag, not looking at him.
“Hey, you okay?” His body ached to be near her. Just a little closer. Just to make sure she’s okay.
“Oh.” She laughed as if he was being silly. “Yeah, just, um. Just read a sad book,” she said quickly.
She’s lying and she doesn’t trust me enough to talk about it.
He could feel his heart breaking at being boxed out. He wanted to fix it. That was how he showed people he cared.
“If this is too much, if something happened with AB, we can talk about it. We can pull your hours back.”
He didn’t want to lose her.
Couldn’t lose her. In any sense of the word.
“No, the hours are fine. It’s just been a lot, you know?” Her voice cracked on the last word. “Oh, I should get my bands.” She walked into the living room, looking embarrassed.
Shit. Shit fucking shit. It was too much.
“We can adjust your hours. I’m sorry for staying too late.”
“No, no. I meant my life,” she said, her voice breaking again. “This”—she gestured around her at the living room—“is the best part of it. Everything else is fucked.”
He bent down to catch her eye, feeling a bit of relief that he wasn’t the problem.
Still want to fix it, though. “Hey.”
She stopped in front of him as she wiped away a tear, looking everywhere but at him.
“Anything I can do?” His heart was in his throat, feeling the pain she felt.
Her lip wobbled as a tear spilled down her cheek. “No.” Her voice was a pained whisper through the tears.
He needed to make her feel better on a cellular level.
He hated the idea of her crying alone in her house next door. If she was going to be miserable, he wanted her here, where he could take care of her and maybe make it all better. “Want to talk about it?”
“I just, it’s all worthless, you know?” She sniffled as she wrung her stretching bands in her hands.
“I got notes back from my coach again today. For my auditions.” She shoved her long hair behind her ears.
“And, I didn’t do anything right. It was worse than my last critique tape.
I was trying to have joy in dancing, like the kids have.
You should see, they have so much more fun than I’ve ever had. ” She wiped her eyes.
He was literally fighting not to wipe the tears away himself.
Her voice came out a strangled whisper against the tears. “I can’t take any more rejection. It’s just so embarrassing.” A loud, deep sob escaped her mouth.
Fuck it.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms tight around her, and she melted into him.
It felt like liberation, her leaning against his chest.
A stroke of luck.
The warmth of the sun against his face.
All the good things in his life wrapped into one, to finally have her safe in his arms.
As he held her tight, she sobbed hard against him. Sobs that sounded like the full weight of someone’s life.
“I'm sorry.” She hiccuped into his chest but didn’t make any move to leave.
He hugged her tighter. That cinnamon scent engulfed him, and he let himself dissolve and simmer into it. He nuzzled his chin against her head, tucking her in closer, wanting to protect her from whatever demons roared in her brain.
He let her cry, stroking her hair. The silky strands of it felt like poured sunlight. He lost count of the minutes she stood there crying, tucked into his chest.
Suddenly, her arms wrapped around his waist, and he knew—this was it.
This felt too fucking right. That stupid thought he’d had weeks ago in the bookstore?
He’d been right.
And it was breaking his heart that he’d have to let her go.
Even as he was trying to memorize every strand on her head, the feel of her hair against his cheek, how perfectly she fit into his chest, pieces of his heart were hitting concrete and shattering.
“I don’t even know if I like dancing anymore.
I only have a few years left in my career.
” She sobbed against him. “But I can’t do anything else.
Not full-time, not as something that’ll support me until I’m seventy, surrounded by my grandkids.
Fifteen years of professional pirouettes isn’t a transferable skill. ” She hiccuped.
Stay with me, he thought. Forever. I’ll work every hour of every day. If you just stay with me.
“I’ll—” He stopped himself. “Take care of you” was the rest of that sentence, but that was fucking ridiculous to say out loud to his nanny. “Anybody would be lucky to have you,” he said quietly, moving a hand down her back.
Her cries quieted, and her arms dropped after a small squeeze around his waist. That was his cue, and he made himself pull away from her but didn’t step back.
She wiped at her eyes and nose with a self-conscious laugh. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Hey.” He pulled out a handkerchief from his back pocket and tilted her chin up to him. “Don’t be embarrassed. I like…”—taking care of you—“being here,”
Her sparkling eyes had twin looks of surprise and then amusement, as he wiped mascara from underneath her eyes.
“Is that”—she hiccuped—“a hanky?”
He just smiled in response and gently dabbed underneath her eyes, trying to get most of it.
“Good thing you wear black shirts, I guess,” she said with a watery laugh as she held her face up to him.
“It’s my mascara absorption machine,” he said quietly. A bright burst of her unexpected laughter made him float from joy.
This woman. Pure light that warms me through.
Mascara now off, he stopped wiping. His thumb lingered, tracing the curve of her cheek.
No one would ever believe that this curve made him realize she was his. He’d only had to look at her profile in that bookstore to realize that she was it.
She was the one.
Her breath caught as his fingers stilled on her cheek, lips parting.
Every instinct urged him to kiss those parted lips. Soothe away her worries with his tongue against hers. Against any part of her, really. He’d come into his hand more times than he wanted to count in the last two weeks, picturing only her.
He got a handle on the beast inside of him. He’d never cross that line. She was an employee for god’s sake.
Don’t go, not yet.
“I think this calls for a drink,” he offered, stepping back.
“Better make mine tea,” she said. He handed her the handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes and nose. “I have an early day tomorrow and alcohol makes my joints achy.”
He pulled out two decaf ginger tea bags and two mugs.
“So?” She took a long, shuddering breath. “How was your day?”
“Meh.” He made a dismissive sound as he ran hot water from their water dispenser in the corner.
She stretched, bending over the kitchen island. A vision of exactly what he wanted to do to her in that position clutched his cock.
Fucking focus.
“Oh, come on,” she egged him on, now more cheerful. “You have to tell me. I cried in front of you.”
“Need leverage?” he said over his shoulder with a smile.
“Exactly!” Her smile was impish as she took the mug of ginger tea from him.
They walked back to the living room couch and sat side by side.
“Well, one guy came in hungover. One guy came in late. I’m behind on everything, and I’ve barely even started the work of moving the office to Fairwick Falls, which was what I was supposed to do now that you’re here.”
“So you had a great day, just like mine?”
He chuckled into the ginger tea that his sister had gotten him hooked on.
She rubbed at her calf as she talked. “Can’t you, like, reprimand them? Because you’re their boss? One late day and you’d be fired at my old job.”
“You hurt yourself?” He pointed to her calf.
“Just an old injury. I pull it sometimes when I overwork muscles.”
She needed to be in top physical condition. He knew that. She’s a fucking ballerina for chrissakes. Even he knew she was essentially an athlete.