Chapter 12 #2
“They said surfing and luau work, and then Luca drove me through gates into what can only be described as a sexy Alpha compound. There are cameras everywhere. Stone walls. The beach is basically their backyard, but there’s a high security fence and a door to access it.
Oh, and their kitchen looks like it belongs to someone who cooks everything with olive oil. ”
“Oh, I hate them already.”
I chuckle and shift on the couch, trying not to smile too much because if I let myself enjoy this conversation fully, I might have to acknowledge how much better I feel than I did this morning.
“Please don’t tell me you’re falling for them.”
The laugh that comes out of me is ugly and immediate. “I mean…”
“Oh God.”
“I’m not saying I am.”
“You absolutely already did, didn’t you?”
“I’m saying,” I correct, “that they smell deliciously good, as if my body has already formed several terrible opinions without consulting me first.”
Clio groans so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
“So Ace really is your scent match.”
“I think North and Luca might be too.” I blow out a breath.
“Hot.”
“Deeply.”
“And all three smell that good?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “Like, stupidly addictive and I want to press my face into them and stay there until I forget my own name.”
Then, very gently: “Adelaide.”
“What?”
“That is not a casual crush.”
I know, and that’s the problem, so I stare at the TV, having no idea what show is playing. “I just got here. Anyway, I miss you,” I tell her.
“I know. I miss you too. Now go to sleep in your suspiciously luxurious beach shack and dream of your terrifyingly attractive Alphas.” A pause. “Have you looked them up on social media?”
“Should I?”
“The one called Luca Lance.” I can hear her smiling. “Go to his Instagram right now.”
I find it in seconds, which is because I have efficient search skills, full stop, end of discussion. He comes up immediately, and I scroll.
Oh.
“Clio.”
“I know.”
The entire grid is Luca. Post-surf mode Luca, gym Luca, standing on a beach at sunset Luca.
Every single photo is of him, usually without a shirt, always flexing those huge muscles.
The follower count is in the high hundreds of thousands, and the comments section is an international incident of mostly women drooling.
“He’s a complete show-off,” I say.
“You’re loving it, aren’t you?”
I keep scrolling, and my thumb catches the edge of a photo at the wrong angle.
It’s Luca fresh out of the ocean, board tucked under one arm, water dripping down his chest and disappearing into a pair of dangerously low board shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination about the general geography of the situation.
I go to flick to the next image, but instead I’ve double-tapped and the heart appears.
I desperately try to unclick it but end up sending him an emoji. “Shit!”
“What?” Clio asks.
“I accidentally sent him an eggplant.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then she starts laughing hard.
“I sent him a dick emoji,” I hiss, because humiliation apparently likes clarity. “To his surfing photo. In front of six hundred and forty thousand people.”
That makes it worse. Clio’s gone now, fully useless, cackling into the phone while I jab at the screen trying to undo my life.
“It was an accident,” I say, half to her and half to the universe. “My thumb just slipped.”
“Can you delete it?”
“I’m trying.”
I hit the screen again, and in the frantic chaos, my phone sends a second reaction. Then a third. I stare in horror. Now there are two eggplants and a water splash.
A whole narrative. A filthy, deeply regrettable narrative.
“No. No, no, no. Clio, I’ve somehow escalated it. Why are my fingers like this?”
She makes this strangled wheezing sound that suggests she may not survive the call. “Oh my God, I just saw what you sent,” she gasps. “You didn’t!”
“I did. I absolutely did. I’ve sent produce and moisture to a man I barely know.”
That finishes her. She is laughing loudly, and I can hear her slapping a table or a pillow or possibly the floor.
My phone buzzes in my hand. A DM. From Luca.
My whole body tenses like I’m about to open a threat from a crime syndicate instead of a message from an infuriatingly hot man.
I tap it.
Two eggplants and a splash. Bold.
My face goes so hot I could probably cook with it. I type back immediately. Accident. Please delete all of that.
His reply comes almost at once. Absolutely not. Then another. Screenshotted for legal purposes. And then a third. Ace and North say thank you for their gift.
I make a sound I’ve never made before in my life and never want to make again. It’s a half-deranged noise.
“He screenshotted it,” I tell Clio, who is somehow still laughing. “He’s sent it to Ace and North. As evidence. As if this is a court case and I’m losing custody of my own dignity.”
“Oh, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she says, still breathless.
“Gah, kill me now.” I glare at nothing and type back. I did not proposition you. I was trying to delete it.
He makes me wait just long enough to annoy me before replying. The first one, maybe. The second one felt committed. The splash was art.
I put my head in my hand.
Clio hears the silence and pounces. “What did he say?”
“He said the splash was art.”
She starts laughing all over again.
“I need to leave the country,” I mutter. “Actually, no, I need to leave the planet.”
“No, no, stay exactly where you are. This is incredible.”
Against my better judgment, I scroll to the comments on his post, and immediately regret being literate.
One person has posted about forty fire emojis in a row. Another has written, in all caps, LUCA WHO IS SHE AND WHY IS SHE RIGHT. A third just says, the splash is what took me out. And one especially deranged woman has commented, bro found his wife.
I stare at the screen, thinking that maybe if I focus hard enough, it’ll undo the last thirty seconds.
Another message comes through. For the record, I’m flattered.
My stomach flips in the most deeply irritating way. I type back before I can think too hard about it. By the eggplants or the aquatic theme?
Your enthusiasm.
I need the earth to crack open and swallow me.
“What did he say?” Clio’s voice drops, suddenly suspicious.
“He’s being funny.”
“That is not enough information, and you know it.”
I exhale through my nose. “He said he’s flattered by my enthusiasm.”
She shrieks. I have to pull the phone away from my ear. A new message appears before I’ve even recovered. You know what really gets me?
I stare at it, instantly wary, then open the next one.
Not even a real denial that you meant me.
My face burns hotter.
I type back with all the dignity I have left, which, at this point, is not much. I denied it immediately.
His response is almost insultingly fast. Weakly.
I sit up straighter on the couch like that will help. “He said my denial was weak.”
Clio makes an outraged sound on my behalf and then immediately ruins it by laughing again. She’s having way too much fun.k
Another message arrives. Should we move this to an in-person discussion, or are you committed to seducing me online?
I stare at it, my mouth gaping open as I’m typing. I am not seducing you.
Clio is laughing so hard she can barely get air. “I’m never recovering from this.”
“Neither am I,” I say. “This is how I die. Not from Daniel but from accidentally sexting a fire dancer on social media.”
“You say ‘accidentally,’ but he seems unconvinced.”
A new message is waiting. Also, for what it’s worth, I’m enjoying this a lot more than I should.
And damn him for that, because the heat in my face is burning me up. Less embarrassment now. More that dangerous little pull he keeps dragging out of me.
I stare at the words for a second too long before typing back. Go to sleep, Luca.
His answer comes straight away. Can’t. I’m dealing with a situation.
I shouldn’t smile. But my mouth betrays me anyway while Clio is still giggling down the phone.
“Well, I’d better let you go before you actually die of laughter,” I say.
Clio wheezes, “Sorry, babe, but this is hilarious.”
“Your support means everything to me.”
“It should. Okay, speak soon. Love ya.”
“Love you too.”
Then I hang up, still smiling like an idiot.
I get up, deciding that a shower is needed, and spot my chips because they were in the bag from the van, and they’re the good salt-and-vinegar ones, which I’ll devour after I’ve washed.
Standing under the warm water with shampoo in my hair, I let myself think back to what Luca said in the doorway earlier about him being my scent match.
The thing is, when I was close to him by the van, when his scent wrapped around me and my brain temporarily went offline, I suspected the same. Then there’s Ace’s scent, which made me lose control on the plane. And when North’s arms were around me tonight, something deep and involuntary went, Oh.
I rinse out the shampoo and decide I’m not finishing that thought tonight because I genuinely don’t know what to do with it and I’m already running at capacity.
Back on the couch, damp-haired, chips open, something forgettable playing on TV, I relax and exhale.
My phone lights up. He’s sent one more message.
Sleep well. I’d say I won’t be thinking about you, but we both know I’d be lying.
I stare at it for a long moment, giddiness rising through me.
Then I type back, very carefully so my thumb doesn’t slip: good night.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Dream of the luau, he sends. We did that for you specifically.
I put the phone facedown and sit there with the waves outside, the TV on low, and the warm, ridiculous feeling of a day that was terrible in several important ways but somehow also the best one I’ve had in months.