Chapter 3
Chapter three
Dulcie
Well, shit.
This is not going at all like how I’d planned in my head.
I confess, I came up with the worst possible idea, but it was the only in that I saw. I hope I sound less of an asshole when I say this plan developed somewhat organically.
After my dad basically begged me to go to New York and bring Luca back, I hit my room back at home and camped out there for hours, doing as much research as I could. I thought the whole thing was crazy. I was at a loss as to what I could do to make my dad’s wish a reality.
The only thing I could think of was that I’d have to find some dirt on Luca. More than the whole, you left my dad in the lurch and broke his freaking heart, you ass breath douchewad.
Since my parents had an education fund, and I was able to save everything I ever made working at the bakery since I was fourteen and my parents started paying me, I had some resources to work with. Enough to hire someone to dig up dirt because blackmail seemed like the only way to go.
I contacted a few friends from school who are into hacking and deep searching and dark webbing and things that blow my mind and churn my stomach.
The thing about getting a business degree is that you have to take classes in so many different areas, including computer science.
I met a few really interesting people, and we stayed friends.
One in particular, Anton, did me a solid.
He only charged me a hundred bucks and let me send it to him in pizza gift cards.
He lives in Boston now. Otherwise, I would have offered to gift him a few free pies as well.
I never expected the result that Anton delivered, which is the whole dating game arrangement type thing Luca has going on.
Anton was able to find out most of Luca’s medical history too—I shudder to think how—his address, and the time the next date was set to happen.
From there, he contacted the poor girl and did something to scare her off.
I’ll always be eternally sorry that it had to be done, and I did tell Anton to go easy.
I hope he followed through. He’s a bit of a wild child, but he’s not a bad guy, and he was never, ever mean.
He gave me her slot and his address. I showed up with the fake ID Anton prepared for me and a full face of goth makeup that would have transformed anyone’s face, and then I told the bulldog lawyer at the door that I was going through a phase.
Was I shitting myself?
Just about literally.
It took so much money and effort to get here that once I was actually in, I didn’t have a plan for what I’d do.
As I walked into the world’s biggest dream cabin and found Luca standing at the window of an expansive dining room with a real antler chandelier and a spread fit for a medieval banquet, I lost all my courage.
I’d truly planned to confess everything, give him my real name, and beg.
And beg.
And beg some more, if that’s what it took.
But the words died in my throat, and instead of confronting him in that first moment and confessing and giving myself up, I started talking to him.
I continued perpetuating the lie and dragging it out because, in that moment, he was nothing like I expected him to be, and I thought it was the only shot I had at eventually confessing everything.
If I told him right away, he’d probably just send me on my way, and I’d never get another chance.
I’d worked way too hard to just throw this away.
The indignity of being dragged from this gorgeous, rustic home, kicking and screaming and making a big freaking fuss because I would fuss like no one’s ever fussed before, made the act seem worth it.
I hate being a liar.
I hate that I’ve done all this to even get this far.
But most of all, I hate that Luca is funny, far too vulnerable, and completely human. Just from these few brief minutes of conversation, I can honestly see what my dad loved about him.
I’m already regretting this to the maximum amount, especially as I stand up and offer my hand to help pick Luca off the floor.
What was I thinking? I just about gave him a heart attack.
Whatever he did to my dad, or however it went down, he’s been through hell and back, and I don’t want to make it worse.
While I was talking to him, round two (so far) of the world’s worst plan took shape.
It involves being unequivocally who I truly am and my most honest self, even if this is a lie, and I’m using a fake name.
If I can befriend Luca, maybe he’ll agree to let me come back here. If he’d agree to that, then maybe we could get to know each other, and I’d be able to convince him to come back to Ohio with me to see my dad. Even if it’s just for a day.
I know, it’s a shit plan, but it always works in the movies, doesn’t it?
It would be so much easier to be a sneaky arsen-dick if Luca were a total piece of work.
No, it wouldn’t be.
It’s definitely not, especially now that his stark green eyes are fixed on my face like he’s trying to decide if I’m a lifeline or an epic bad decision.
He cooked, and the food is getting cold.
He’s clearly lonely. There wasn’t a word he said earlier that his emotion didn’t bleed into.
Whatever it is, he decides I’m not the worst of it.
His hand closes around mine, and the trembling I faked just a few seconds ago hits for real.
If there’s anything I won’t live down, it’s that moment.
I’d planned a whole hilarious, I’ve been slain, dramatic monologue, but I had to cut the shit when Luca nearly stroked out.
If anyone has for real fainted, gagged, or other bullshit because of his face, which isn’t even that bad, I will find them and force them to sit down and watch hours of their least favorite TV show, all while singing that one catchy song they just can’t get out of their brain.
I’m not sure which one that will be. I’ll probably have to custom-tailor it to match for maximum misery.
I think he was joking about that woman passing out.
He had to be.
Fuck.
May her socks forever be destined to step in spontaneous puddles of water that appear in her house.
He gets up on his own and releases my hand. But the lightning storm doesn’t stop.
I flex my fingers as I walk to the way long freaking hell and gone end of the table where the other place setting is laid out. I grab the woven mat underneath the plate, along with the plate and all the utensils, and set them down right near Luca’s seat.
He sinks into his chair like the fight’s gone out of him, deflating with his shoulders hunched forward.
I have an absurd urge to see him smile, or at least put that surprised, entertained tone back in his voice. I whip the lids off the dishes, revealing double-stuffed potatoes, the world’s best-smelling rice, lemon pepper carrots, and dill salmon with a creamy sauce.
I know I need to say something, but what?
I was all chatty freaking Callie when I got here, but now Luca is uncomfortable, and that makes me nervous and edgy, which sends my brain into a tailspin of what the fuck? Also? He’s hot. Not was. Is.
“In case you couldn’t tell, I actually really like your face.” Shit, nothing like jumping straight into the deep end if the deep end is a vat of acid filled with crocodiles super stoked about eating me.
I fill my plate and dig in, groaning as soon as the salmon melts on my tongue.
I don’t even freaking like fish.
But I like this fish.
And I think I might like Luca Carson too.
Shit.
The burning in my body, hardening of my nipples, and tingling south of the border…
they don’t care that he was walking this planet before I was even born.
He’s almost a quarter of a century older than me, but the way his black button-up shirt and that black jacket cling to his muscular shoulders, pecs, and jacked abs every time he breathes is a point in favor of the age is just a number argument.
He stabs a piece of salmon on his fork and brings it to his plate. It drips sauce across the table, and he hacks at it, not meeting my eyes.
Double shit.
He looks like he doesn’t want to talk to me for the rest of the night.
Our window of rapport is over, and I want it back.
Not just for my dad’s sake either. Selfishly, I want it back for mine, for that weird connection I felt as soon as we started talking.
Brutal honesty worked before, so I offer it again.
I turn to him and ask, “Do you think what happened was a punishment?”
His fork pauses on the way to his mouth. His attention immediately snaps to me, and his lips purse. Since one side naturally downturns with scar tissue, it pushes the other side up into a smirky grimace, which makes him look absolutely adorable.
Truly. The surgeries he’s had have done remarkable things, or he was exaggerating about the damage.
Maybe a little bit of both. I know if it were me, I would.
They’ve rebuilt his jaw, evidenced by the heavier scar tissue.
His cheek is just about symmetrical to the other, but the skin is shiny and raised there, where it was likely grafted.
Little white scars pepper around his eye and up across his forehead like a constellation.
He must have come so near to losing his eye.
He tilts his face to study me, narrowing his eyes. I don’t break eye contact until he gives me a full visual of his ear. His hairline is bisected by ridges of scars, and it’s obvious he’s had reconstructive surgery along his upper jawline, extending to his ear as well.
“Not that there has to be something,” I whisper, unnerved by how hard his eyes have gotten, green turned to steel in an instant. “But when something changes dramatically, people often look for a reason why. And not finding any logical answer, they call it a curse.”
I know I’m coming at this with insider knowledge, and it’s not fair in the least.