3. Three
Three
Lila
“Thank you all so much,” I say, surveying my new living room, now filled with boxes. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Emily responds, lifting Presley onto her hip. The baby gurgles happily, reaching for her hair.
Sam wraps an arm around his wife. “Plus, we got to enjoy watching Vince break a sweat.”
“Shut up,” Vince grumbles, but there’s no heat in it. For someone Emily described as perpetually grouchy, he’d been surprisingly helpful all morning .
I’m comfortable with all of them now—even Nate, who’s quiet but kind, and Cass and Kendrick, who showed up halfway through with cold drinks for everyone. It’s strange how quickly they’ve accepted me into their circle, these famous musicians who could probably have anyone they want as friends.
Well, I’m comfortable with almost everyone.
Luke emerges from the kitchen, where he’s been organizing my boxes of cooking equipment. His t-shirt clings to his broad shoulders, and a lock of blonde hair falls across his forehead in a way that looks like he belongs on a magazine cover. My heart does a little flip when his light blue eyes meet mine, and I quickly look away.
“Your kitchen’s all set,” he says, his voice doing that warm, rumbly thing that makes my stomach flutter. “Though I’m pretty sure you have more cooking gadgets than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“A chef is only as good as their tools,” I manage to say, proud that my voice comes out steady despite the blush I can feel creeping up my neck.
Why does he affect me like this? I’m fine around the others—even Cass, who’s arguably the most famous of them all. But one look from Luke and I turn into a stuttering mess.
Maybe it’s because he’s just so good-looking and sexy, tall and fit, with those intense, light-colored eyes and a smile that probably makes women weak in the knees across the country. Meanwhile, I’m built like a 1950s pin-up girl–generous curves from sampling my own cooking too much.
“We should probably head out,” Emily says, giving me a smile. “Let you get settled in.”
Everyone starts gathering their things, and I busy myself by hugging them goodbye and thanking them again. Luke is one of the last to leave. When he steps forward, I tense slightly, but he just smiles.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” he says softly. “If you need anything, I’m right next door.”
“Thanks,” I squeak out, very aware of how close he’s standing. He smells amazing, slightly musky, and something uniquely him. Clearing my throat, I ask quickly, “When did you want to come over for your thank you dinner?”
He gives me a lopsided grin. “How about tomorrow, or is that too soon?”
“No, that works. I planned to go grocery shopping in the morning anyway. So, I’ll see you here at six? ”
Luke nods with a smile and a wave and walks out the door.
When I turn around, Emily arches a brow. “Already making dinner plans, I see.”
“It’s just a thank-you dinner,” I protest, but Emily just rolls her eyes. Sam takes Presley out to the car as I thank Emily again and give her a final hug.
After they’ve all left, I sink onto the couch, letting out a long breath. Through the wall, I can hear muffled movement from Luke’s side of the duplex. He’s my neighbor. The gorgeous, talented keyboard player rockstar is my next-door neighbor.
The same keyboard player who kept watching me all morning with those intense eyes. But that’s just because of my cooking, right? The way to a man’s heart and all that. He’d made it clear last night how much he loved the appetizers I’d made.
That must be it. He’s probably just hoping I’ll cook for him again, which is fine. Great, even. Cooking is what I’m good at, what I’m confident at. If Luke wants to flirt a little to get some home-cooked meals, I can handle that. It’s certainly better than thinking he might actually be interested in me.
Because guys who look like Luke don’t go for girls who look like me. They date slim supermodels and actresses, not small-town chefs with flour-covered aprons and too-generous curves.
I stand up, determined to start unpacking and stop thinking about my ridiculously attractive tattooed neighbor. But as I pass the window, I catch a glimpse of him on our shared back deck, drinking water after all the moving. His head tilts back, exposing the strong, tanned line of his throat, and I nearly trip over a box.
“Get it together, Lila,” I mutter to myself, forcing my eyes away. “He just wants your cooking.”
But even as I think it, I remember the way his fingers brushed mine when he helped with the boxes, how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and how he seemed to find reasons to be wherever I was all morning...
No. No, no. I can’t go down that road. Luke’s my neighbor now, and if I’m going to survive living next door to him, I need to keep things strictly friendly. Professional, even. I can cook for him sometimes, chat about the weather, and be a normal neighbor—not some star-struck groupie .
Yeah, I can totally do this.
Then I hear him start playing his keyboard through the wall, a melody so beautiful it makes my heart flutter, and I realize I’m in way over my head.
I’m stirring the French coq au vin when I hear Luke’s keyboard go quiet next door. The recipe is one of my favorites: chicken braised in wine with mushrooms and pearl onions, served over creamy mashed potatoes. It’s simple but elegant—not that I’m trying to impress him or anything.
The knock at my door makes my heart jump, even though I’m expecting it. When I open it, Luke is standing there in dark jeans and a snug black t-shirt that should be illegal, as it shows off his chiseled chest and biceps.
“Something smells amazing,” he says, stepping inside.
“Just a simple French dish,” I explain, trying to sound casual as I lead him to the dining area, where the table is already set for two. I’m glad I didn’t go overboard and light candles. “I hope you like chicken.”
“I like anything that smells this good.” He leans against the counter, watching me plate the food. “Can I help?”
“Almost done,” I say, trying to ignore how domestic this feels. “There’s wine if you want some. ”
I pour him a glass of wine, and as I hand it to him, I state, “Why don’t you have a seat on the couch? Dinner should be ready in a few minutes.”
As I turn back to the stove, I have to sternly remind myself that cooking is my way of communicating—a way of creating comfort and connection. But tonight, it feels different. Tonight, Luke is sitting in my living room, waiting for dinner.
I still can’t quite believe it. Luke Sterling, keyboard player for the Wild Band , is in my home. His presence is impossible to ignore, even from the kitchen. Every movement I make feels amplified, and I’m hyperaware of how I look and sound.
“Need any help in there?” Luke’s deep voice calls out, cutting through the quiet.
“I’ve got it!” I reply, hoping my voice doesn’t betray how much his offer makes my heart flutter. “Just a few more minutes.”
He steps into the doorway anyway, leaning against the frame with a casual ease that makes my pulse quicken. “Smells amazing. Are you sure I can’t do something? Stir a pot or chop a carrot?”
I laugh, shaking my head as I brush my hair away from my face. “Trust me, you’d be bored. The hard part’s done. ”
His grin is slow and disarming. “You’d be surprised. I can be useful.”
Turning, I hold up the finished platter. “Dinner’s ready.”
We settle around the table, and I give each of us a serving. Making sure Luke’s portion is generous.
He takes a deep, appreciative breath. I watch as he takes his first bite. “This tastes amazing. What did you call it again?”
“Coq au vin,” I say with a smile.
“Fancy.”
“It only sounds fancy,” I admit with a grimace. “It means rooster in wine.” Then I laugh at his expression.
Luke continues to compliment the food, trying to put me at ease. It’s working as I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders.
We’re almost finished eating when I finally get brave enough to ask him a personal question. “So, how do you like performing in the Wild Band?”
Before he can respond, we hear the distinctive purr of a high-performance engine pulling into the driveway. Luke’s expression changes slightly—something flickers across his face too quickly for me to read.
The sound of heels clicking on the wooden porch precedes a sharp knock on Luke’s front door. Through the main window, I catch sight of her—tall and willowy. Her dark hair is sleek and straight, framing sharp cheekbones that make her look like she’s just stepped off a Milan runway. Even from here, I can tell her makeup is flawless.
“That’s Crystal,” Luke says, setting down his wine glass. His voice is carefully neutral. “I should probably...”
“Of course,” I say quickly, even as my stomach sinks. “Go ahead.”
He hesitates. “Why don’t you come with me? I should introduce you since we’re next-door neighbors.”
Before I can protest, he’s leading me outside. Crystal turns when she hears us, and up close, she’s even more stunning—but there’s something sharp in her perfect features, like cut glass.
Crystal. The name fits her perfectly, all hard edges and delicate sharpness. My stomach churns as she gives Luke a possessive smile .
“Surprise, Luke,” she practically purrs, then stops short when she sees me. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, taking in my casual dress and the apron I forgot I was wearing. “Who’s this?”
“Crystal, this is Lila, my new neighbor. She’s an amazing chef.” Luke’s hand brushes the small of my back as he makes the introduction, and I try not to read anything into it. “Lila, this is Crystal. We’ve uh… been seeing each other.”
The words are like a slap, jolting me back to reality, but I force a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
Crystal’s red lips curve into what might be a smile, studying me like she’s trying to figure out where I fit in Luke’s world. “A chef? How quaint. We should hire you for our next private dinner party. The last caterer was such a disappointment.”
“Oh, I—“ I start, but she’s already pulling out her phone.
“I’m sure Lila’s not set up yet,” Luke says. Is it my imagination, or does he sound uncomfortable?
“Actually,” I hear myself say, “I’d be happy to discuss it. Here’s my card.” I always keep a few in my apron pocket, and I hand one to Crystal, proud that my hand doesn’t shake .
“Perfect!” She slips it into her designer purse. “Now, Luke, we’re already late. I know I should have warned you, but it was so last minute. Daddy is having a few people over for dinner, and there’s someone he wants you to meet—“ She suddenly frowns. “You should change—that t-shirt is too casual.”
Luke glances down at his shirt with a frown, then gives a casual shrug.
“Come on, Luke. Daddy hates it when we’re late.” Crystal then calls over her shoulder, “I’ll text you later about the party.”
I nod stiffly, unsure how else to respond. The whole exchange feels surreal as if I’m in a movie scene where I don’t belong.
“Thanks for keeping Luke company for me. I’m sure he’s been a perfect gentleman.”
I bite back the urge to snap at her, forcing myself to nod instead. “It was no trouble.”
Luke shakes his head and looks like he wants to say something else, but Crystal’s already steering him toward her car—a sleek red convertible that probably costs more than I’ll make in five years .
“Wait,” he says, glancing back at my door. “I should help Lila clean up...”
“Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t mind.” Crystal’s hand slides possessively around his arm. “Do you, Lila?”
“No. Not at all,” I manage. “You go ahead.”
I watch helplessly as Luke allows himself to be led to her car. He pauses just before climbing into the passenger seat, looking back at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Thanks for dinner,” he says, his voice soft. “It was delicious.”
“Anytime,” I manage to say, my throat tight.
Crystal doesn’t give me a second glance as she slides into the driver’s seat, her polished nails gripping the wheel. The engine roars to life, and within seconds, they’re gone, leaving nothing but a faint trail of exhaust and a sinking feeling in my chest.
I close the door and lean against it, letting out a shaky breath. The house feels emptier than it did before he arrived, and the pride I felt from the meal I cooked so eagerly fades fast.
For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like if things were different—if Luke wasn’t part of such a glamorous world of fast cars and women like Crystal. But that’s the thing about imagining: it only gets you so far.
With a sigh, I push off the door and head to the kitchen, determined to distract myself with the dishes. It’s better than thinking about how out of my league Luke Sterling is.