The Romance Revival

Prologue Emery

On paper, we never made sense.

He’s always wanted a family; I never even planned to get married.

He surfs and hikes, bikes and runs; I hate sand and sun, and run only if death is the alternative or procuring coffee requires it.

He’s an extrovert and charms everyone he meets; I like dogs more than people.

He’s always down to dance with every grandma, drunk bridesmaid, and adorable flower girl at a wedding; you could not forcibly peel me from the wall during the “Cha Cha Slide.” He works to live; I live to work.

But when I surprised everyone and took a long weekend to attend my cousin’s wedding in Las Vegas, all it took was hearing his laugh from across the banquet hall for everything I thought I knew about myself to change.

Our eyes met, and his smile faltered for just a breath before he turned to the heavily tattooed man he was talking to, said something, and then made his way across the room to me, his eyes locked on mine. When he was only a foot away, I registered how tall he was, how broad, how attractive.

Shit.

I wanted to find some visible flaw. I couldn’t.

Beneath my sternum, an anxious lever flickered desperately, begging the universe to let me not fuck it up.

I’d never been good at meet-cutes; my best friend had long since stopped bothering to set me up on blind dates.

The first time, I apparently turned the guy off by talking about botflies while he tried to eat his orzo.

I pissed the next one off by correcting his use of “less” when he meant “fewer.” Then there was the guy who talked the entire meal about the mountain of supplements I should be taking—and could I use his referral code at checkout?

—before asking about my gym routine. Joke’s on him: I don’t even know where the nearest gym is.

The final nail in the blind-date coffin was the one that ended before we’d even ordered entrees.

It started out fine, but then he mentioned his favorite book was American Psycho.

I knew my time would be better spent back in the lab. For, like, forever.

So that’s what I did, and gave up on dating entirely. My job was the best partner I could ask for anyway.

But then I came to Vegas, heard a perfect laugh, and suddenly he was in front of me.

My mind went blank. Standing this close to him—he was wearing a black suit, no tie, his white shirt unbuttoned at the neck and exposing a peek of smooth, tanned collarbone—I felt as though the universe somehow answered my wish.

I was no longer the lab-rat book nerd I’d always known myself to be.

I was the woman in the blue strapless sequined dress who’d actually put on makeup for the first time in weeks, who’d agreed to let someone else braid her usually ponytailed hair into a woven crown on top of her head, who’d had two glasses of wine and wanted nothing more than to give the rest of the night to this man standing only inches away.

I would think back to this moment later when we stood side by side on Torrey Pines Beach, fingers intertwined, and the waves broke over our shins, cleaning away our trailing footprints like we’d never stepped anywhere but right where we were planted.

That first night, he made me feel like I’d been spawned into the world, at this wedding, solely for him to walk across the room to me.

“I’m Luca,” he said, voice deep and calm.

“Emery.”

He took my hand, his smile turning from polite and a little unsure to flirtatious and elated. “Hi, Emery,” he whispered.

My heart did a painful lurch. Hot and endearing. My absolute kryptonite. “Hi, Luca.”

Luca huffed out a nervous chuckle as he released my hand. Reaching up, he ran his fingers through his thick dark blond hair, and I tracked the movement, mesmerized. “I saw you looking over and, I don’t know. Wanted to come meet you.”

“Oh, I just looked over because I heard your laugh,” I said lamely.

“Yeah?”

“It cut through the room like a firecracker in a library.” I immediately wanted to suck the words back into my mouth, but Luca beamed like it was the greatest compliment he’d ever received.

“A firecracker in a library, huh?”

I nodded. “I mean, it’s a pretty great laugh.”

He tilted his head at me, smiling, and I could tell that he’d heard some approximation of this before, probably a million times. His was the kind of laugh that made everyone feel good.

“You have beautiful eyes,” he said, looking at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering on the bright spot of copper in my right one.

I swallowed. “Thank you.”

The song changed, from upbeat to slow, and he stood looking at me like he had nothing else in the world to do, and just when I was about to burst from the tension, from rummaging through the attic of my rom-com cortex, looking for one usable line, Luca calmly held out his hand to me. “Do you want to dance?”

And just like that, I became someone who danced.

To be fair, it was more of a sway.

But I don’t know how I would have moved more with how tightly he held me, how close we were. He led capably, occasionally pivoting us in smooth arcs before slowing, gently moving from side to side.

Does he dance like this with everyone? I wondered, and then cracked the whip on those thoughts. Five minutes into this interaction and I was already staking a claim.

But who wouldn’t? He’d dragged more attention with him across the room than an F1 car does around a track.

Males, females, young, old, queer, straight—everyone was watching him.

He was gorgeous, of course—the thick flaxen hair, tanned skin, dark brows, playful blue eyes—but it was more than that.

Luca had an easiness in his body, a looseness in his limbs and a smile that carried the vibe of a hot, benevolent prince who had no idea of the power he held.

“What do you do for a living, Emery?”

His question caught me off guard, though it shouldn’t have, being an obvious conversation starter. Except for me, it was the conversation starter that always made my stomach suffer a small twist.

Tell the truth, I thought, and immediately discarded it. I couldn’t and wouldn’t.

“I work in the design and implementation of medical-grade lasers used in surgical equipment.”

He stilled, pausing our rhythm and looking down at me. “Seriously?”

I nodded, surprised again. It was such a practiced, boring answer, I was rarely asked to confirm.

On the off chance I was, this is where I’d veer straight into the technical weeds, using terms like photothermolysis and optimal ablation until the listener lost interest. But here with Luca, for some strange reason, I felt unwilling to expand the lie.

It usually rolled right out of me, but tonight, I was sick of it. It felt like a straitjacket.

“What kind of schooling do you have to do to make lasers?” There was a pleasing rhythm to his speech I couldn’t place, a rounded accent like an extra vowel at the end of some of his words.

Laughing at his astonishment, I said, “I went to medical school, but I don’t actually practice medicine.”

Mostly.

“A doctor? You’re Dr. Emery?”

I laughed again, nodding. “I am. Dr. Emery Finch.”

He began moving us again, a slow dance that allowed us to keep looking at each other. “Is it terrible if I tell you I haven’t seen a doctor in, like, five years?”

“Yes, but I won’t tell.” I lowered my voice, confiding with a smile, “I don’t actually know many physicians.”

“I treat everything with ibuprofen and water.”

“You look pretty healthy to me,” I said with a grin. Understatement of the century. “As long as you wear sunblock and eat your veggies, this doctor says you’re probably fine.”

“Smart and hot,” he said, shaking his head and smiling down at me. “I’m intimidated.”

This made me laugh again. “Oh, please.”

“Seriously, now I can brag that I know someone who makes lasers.”

“You say that like it was on your bucket list.”

“Emery Finch, I think you underestimate how much men think about lasers.”

I stared up at him, absolutely charmed. “What do you do for a living?”

It was his turn to grin. “I’m a landscaper.”

My surprise flared and then vanished. Other than the suit and the artificial Vegas setting around us, everything about Luca screamed I work outdoors in the sunshine. “I love that.”

“You do? Why?”

Tilting my head, I studied him. “Because it fits you.”

“Is that a nice way of saying I look like someone who doesn’t read at work?”

I laughed. “I’m saying you look like someone who likes to be outside, in the sun, moving his body.”

These words sent a hot flush of mortification down my spine, but he didn’t seem to hear the overt horniness in my voice.

“I do; I love being outside.”

“That’s nice.”

He correctly interpreted my tone. “And you, not so much?”

“I like to think of myself as indoorsy.”

Luca laughed and it was that infectious sound again. “What sorts of indoorsy things do you like to do?”

Before I could think better of it, I lifted one eyebrow and his laugh ripped from him again, filling the room and catching the attention of people around us, who smiled. “Okay,” he said, “I walked right into that one.”

“To be honest, I’m a bit of a workaholic,” I admitted.

“Okay, but in all fairness, I bet lasers are fascinating.”

I shrugged. “To me, I guess.”

“What made you get into that line of work?”

I wasn’t sure anyone had ever asked me this before, and it meant I didn’t have time to think of a breezier answer. “My parents died in a car accident, and what I do now is a circuitous way of inventing things that could have saved them.”

My own surprise at my answer was replaced by a vague sensation of relief. Like when you’re carrying something heavy and are finally able to set it down, if only for a minute. There, I thought. That’s a hundred percent true.

“Oh shit,” he said, pausing our movements again. “Actually? Damn. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. Yeah.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Jesus.”

I nodded, and smiled up at him, hoping he read the expression as I’m okay now, I promise rather than I smile when I talk about my parents’ death.