2. Chapter 2
Luca
Strange how fast this wedding reception begins to feel as if I’m seated at a Gentlemen’s club. I’m halfway through deciding whether to stay or leave when she walks into my space and takes ownership … of me. I noticed her immediately, before she reached my lap.
Auburn hair. Blue eyes. One of the bridesmaids I noticed earlier — the prettiest one.
I thought this was a joining of forces to create family — a union of two souls to begin their legacy together. Instantly, it’s beginning to feel like a hot encounter where if I slip enough money into her garter or g-string, I’ll get more minutes.
She’s not really smiling. There’s something tighter beneath the surface, something coiled and reactive. Interesting. She’s looking straight at me. That part… is even more interesting.
People watch me all the time and I’m used to it.
It comes with the territory. Some people stare because they recognize the name.
Others because they’re trying to figure out if the rumors are true.
A few because they think proximity means something it doesn’t.
This is different. This is… purposeful and deliberate.
There are a number of possible explanations for what’s happening. None of them involve a stranger climbing onto me in the middle of a wedding reception without invitation. So I wait. And then she kisses me.
That answers nothing.
Her mouth is warm, confident, not searching for permission. She doesn't feel nervous or uncertain. If anything, she's filled with intent that's sharp and immediate, like she’s made a decision and committed to it fully.
For a fraction of a second, I consider pushing her back to ask questions. Maybe I should end whatever this is before it begins. And then I feel it. The tension in her body. The way her fingers tighten just slightly against my jacket.
She’s not here for me. She’s here for someone else.
Ah.
Now we’re getting somewhere. My hand comes to her waist before I can stop myself. Or more accurately—before I decide not to. If she wants a performance, I can give her one.
I pull her closer. Her breath catches. So does mine. That… wasn’t part of the plan.
The kiss deepens, and I let it. Suddenly, there’s something about her that doesn’t feel staged now. Heat builds fast between us.
She tastes like champagne and impulse, and I have the distinct impression she has no idea what she’s just started.
That makes two of us.
She pulls back first, just enough to breathe, and I take the opportunity to actually look at her.
Her eyes are brighter up close. Not just blue—clear, expressive, giving away more than she probably realizes. There’s determination there. And something else layered underneath. Hurt.
I follow the line of her gaze when she glances over her shoulder and spot the 'issue'. Yes, there he is. Blond. Polished. Watching us like he’s trying to decide if this is real or something he can dismantle. The kind of man who believes everything can be dismantled. I know his type.
I shift my attention back to her.
“So,” I say quietly, my hand still firm at her waist, “this isn’t about me? If you wanted my attention, you had it.”
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless. “I’m so sorry, but I need you to pretend you’re my boyfriend for about… five minutes.”
She doesn’t pause or attempt to soften the ask. Just straight to it. Bold. I like that.
“Do you now?” I ask.
“Actually,” she amends, “make that ten.”
I could easily refuse. I could remove her from my lap, stand, walk away, and let her deal with whatever mess she’s trying to escape. That would be the sensible choice. It would also be… disappointing. Because something about this feels like it could be a surprising opportunity. The kind I enjoy.
“And if I say no?” I ask.
She meets my gaze without flinching.
“You won’t.”
There’s confidence there now, layered over whatever pushed her in this direction to begin with. I glance past her once more, catching the exact moment the man across the room shifts his stance, his focus narrowing. He doesn’t like this. Good. I look back at her.
“Five minutes,” I say.
Her shoulders relax just slightly.
“We’ll see about ten.”
She doesn’t move off my lap. I don’t tell her to. Instead, I adjust my hold, turning her just enough so she’s angled toward the room, toward the audience she’s clearly playing to. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.
“Your ex?” I murmur near her ear.
A small pause.
“…Yes.”
“And the woman with him?”
“I don’t know her,” she says. “But I don’t like her.”
There’s a hint of something sharper in her tone now that seems possessive. I huff out a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh.
“Good,” I say.
She stills slightly at that.
“Good?” she echoes.
I let my thumb trace once along her hip—not enough to draw attention, but enough to remind her, and myself, that she’s still very much in my space.
“Jealousy reads better if it’s mutual,” I say.
She turns her head just enough to look at me again, something shifting in her expression. She’s moved from a determined to make a statement stance to awareness of me — of this — of what it could become.
“Stay close,” I add quietly.
“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” she replies.
“I’m Luca.”
She blinks.
“Lucy.”
Across the room, my family has gone quiet. This doesn’t surprise me. Give my grandmother one unexplained woman on my lap and she’ll build a five-year plan, a wedding menu, and a succession strategy.
Lucy’s ex still glances our way periodically, trying to understand what he’s seeing. Making sure he won’t yet, I lean in again, my mouth brushing just close enough to hers to keep the illusion intact.
“Relax, Lucy,” I murmur.
“Your boyfriend’s got this.”
And it’s true. Right now, I’m exactly where I want to be.