7. Chapter 7
Luca
Lucy freezes the moment she realizes we’ve left the dock.
I notice the way her shoulders draw in by a fraction, the way her fingers tighten around mine.
Her gaze switches from the darkening shoreline to the deck beneath her heels as if she’s wondering whether she has time to reconsider every decision that brought her here.
She doesn’t pull away. That’s what interests me most.
I gave her the chance to stay behind. I meant it. Maybe not as nobly as I should have, because part of me wanted her to choose the yacht. Wanted her to choose me, even if I had no right to phrase it that way after knowing her for less time than most men spend choosing a bottle of wine.
Still, the choice was hers. And she made it.
The low vibration of the engines hums beneath us as the yacht glides into the canal.
Warm light spills across the deck, catching in Lucy’s hair and turning the auburn strands into something deeper, almost copper.
Her bridesmaid dress lifts slightly in the night breeze, and she presses one hand to the skirt, shooting the water another suspicious glance.
“I knew this was a mistake,” she mutters.
I look down at her. “Which part?”
She turns her face toward me slowly. “That is a very risky question.”
“Then answer carefully.”
“I am standing on a yacht with a man I met by committing what might legally count as lap-based trespassing.”
My mouth curves before I can stop it.
Behind us, Isabella makes a delighted sound. “Lap-based trespassing. I’m writing that down.”
Lucy closes her eyes. “Of course you heard that.”
“We all heard that,” Bianca says.
Adriana steps onto the deck behind them, phone in hand. “Some of us are trying not to encourage it.”
“Not very hard,” Isabella says.
My mother gives Lucy a warm smile. “Ignore them, darling.”
Lucy opens her eyes. “I’m trying, but they’re very audible.”
My father laughs under his breath. Nonna says nothing. She simply stands near the center of the deck in a cream-colored jacket, one hand resting lightly over the other, watching Lucy as if every word confirms a theory. That should worry me. It does, but not enough.
The captain’s crew moves quietly around us, efficient and nearly invisible. Lights from the reception begin to shrink behind us. Lucy looks back toward shore.
She has left familiar ground. And she did it with my hand in hers. I should not like that as much as I do.
“Come with me,” I say.
Her eyes return to mine. “Again?”
“Yes.”
“You say that a lot.”
“You keep coming.”
Bianca appears instantly beside her. “Where are you taking her?”
“Away from you.”
“That’s rude.”
“It was meant to be.”
Lucy makes the small breathy sound she gives when she’s trying not to laugh. I’m beginning to recognize it. I’m beginning to want to hear it again, which is another problem I do not currently want to examine.
Bianca narrows her eyes at me. “Bring her back. I have plans for her.”
Lucy turns to her. “Should that concern me?”
“Yes,” Adriana says.
“No,” Bianca says at the same time.
Isabella smiles brightly. “Depends on how attached you are to that dress.”
Lucy looks down. “I’m getting the feeling this dress has offended your entire family.”
Lucy sighs. “It was chosen by the bride.”
“Come,” I repeat, before my sisters decide to undress her on deck in the name of fashion.
Lucy looks at me, then at the waiting Morettis, then back at me.
“Fine,” she says. “But if I disappear, someone tell Celia I was last seen with an Italian man on a big yacht.”
“I’m Sicilian,” Nonna says.
Lucy stills. Then she turns back with a wince. “I deeply apologize to the yacht.”
For one suspended second, the deck goes quiet. Then Nonna laughs approvingly.
Damn. Lucy Phillips is becoming very dangerous.
I take her hand more securely and lead her toward the stairs that climb to the upper deck. She follows without hesitation, though I feel the way she grips the railing when the yacht shifts beneath her. I slow my pace. She notices, glances at me, and says nothing.
The upper deck is quieter. The family noise softens below us, replaced by the rush of water along the hull and the muted thrum of the engines.
Ahead, the bow opens toward the dark canal, where the city lights shimmer across the water in broken gold ribbons.
The air smells of salt and faint cigar smoke still clinging to my jacket.
Lucy steps to the rail and looks out. For the first time since we boarded, she appears less tense.
The breeze lifts strands of hair from her shoulders, and the city reflects in her eyes.
She looks less like the woman who panicked at a wedding and more like someone standing at the edge of a door she didn’t know existed.
I remain behind her for a moment, giving her space. Another foolish decision.
What I want is to step closer. So I do.
“This is beautiful,” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
She glances back at me. “You’re looking at me, not the view.”
“I’ve seen the view.”
Her lips part.
There is the blush again, soft and quick, moving across her cheeks before she can stop it. I like knowing I can do that. I like it too much.
She turns back to the water. “Do you bring all your fake girlfriends here?”
“No.”
“Real ones?”
“No.”
She looks at me again, more carefully this time. “That was too fast.”
“It was true.”
“Luca Moretti doesn’t bring women onto the family yacht?”
“Not into family spaces.”
The words settle between us. I did not mean to say them quite like that. Or perhaps I did. It is getting harder to tell where strategy ends tonight and honesty begins.
Lucy watches me, her humor fading into something softer. “Then why bring me?”
Because you climbed into my lap and turned a dead evening into something alive.
Because my family watches you like they’ve found a missing piece of furniture that was previously donated and missed.
Because you make terrible decisions and then stand by them with your chin up.
Because when I gave you an exit, you looked at the water, looked at me, and came anyway.
But, I say none of that.
“Because you surprised me,” I answer.
She exhales, half laugh and half sigh. “You said that already.”
“It continues to be true.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the safest one.”
Her gaze sharpens. “For me or for you?”
Not simply overwhelmed. Not simply dazzled by the yacht or my family or the expensive lighting she keeps pretending not to notice. Lucy sees more than she should. She looks at the spaces between words and asks about them.
For a woman who started this evening lying badly, she is inconveniently good at finding truth.
“For both of us,” I say.
The breeze moves between us. The corner of my mouth lifts. Her gaze drops to it just for a couple of seconds. I see it. Everything in me stills.
The first time she kissed me, she had an audience, a motive, and a man across the room she wanted to wound. I understood it quickly enough. Let it happen. Took control where I could. Enjoyed it more than I should have.
This is different. No Derek. No performance. Only Lucy standing in front of me with the wind in her hair and my name still lingering between us.
I step closer. She does not move back.
“Lucy.”
Her breath catches slightly. “Yes?”
“I’m going to kiss you.”
Her eyes widen. “Is that a question?”
“No.”
“Right. Of course it isn’t.”
“But you can say no.”
The words matter. I need her to know that. For a moment, she looks at me in a way that strips the humor from the air. Not completely. It never disappears with her. But something solid and real rises beneath it.
“I know,” she says.
And then she lifts her face. That is all the answer I need.
I touch her carefully at first, one hand at her waist, the other rising to her cheek. Her skin is warm beneath my palm. Her lashes lower. The yacht moves beneath us, slow and steady, but all I feel is the small inhale she takes before my mouth meets hers.
The first kiss was fire set to prove a point. This one is quieter. Deeper. More sensual.
She melts into me with a soft sound that cuts through every controlled part of me.
I pull her closer, no longer pretending the touch is necessary for balance.
Her hands slide to my chest, fingers curling into my jacket, and for a moment I forget the water, the yacht, the family below us, the business waiting for me, all of it.
There is only her. The taste of champagne on her mouth. The warmth of her body against mine. The absurd, impossible certainty that I have known her longer than I have.
Her lips part under mine, and the kiss changes. Not enough to rush. Enough to admit to both of us that we’re not pretending anymore. My hand finds the small of her back, anchoring her as I taste the second she opens to me.
She’s not shy now. She returns the kiss with a reckless curiosity that matches my own. Her tongue touches mine, and this time she claims her own space in it—shifting just enough to let me know she’s chosen every inch of this moment.
When we break apart, she stays close, forehead touching mine. Her breath is uneven. So is mine. Something possessive and sharp moves through me.
Mine.
The thought is immediate.
Primitive, unhelpful right now. But far too satisfying to ignore.
I shift, turning her slightly so her back is to the rail and my body shelters hers from the wind. She rises onto her toes, chasing the kiss, and I nearly lose what remains of my restraint. Nearly.
A small voice from the stairs says, “Oh, absolutely not.”
Lucy jerks in my arms. I lift my head slowly.
Bianca stands at the top of the stairs, one hand on the rail, expression horrified in a way that has nothing to do with propriety. Isabella appears behind her, eyes wide with delight.
“Oh,” Isabella says. “We interrupted something.”
“You interrupted on purpose,” I say.
“Yes,” Bianca replies. “Because apparently no one else is concerned that she is having a life-changing yacht kiss in a bridesmaid dress.”
Lucy makes a sound against my chest. I glance down. She has buried her face against my jacket. Whether from embarrassment or laughter, I cannot tell. Possibly both.
“Bianca,” I warn.
“No. Don’t Bianca me. I let the first kiss go. I allowed the lap situation to develop organically. I even respected the dance floor moment, which was very restrained of me.”
“You have respected nothing in your life.”
“Exactly. Growth.” Bianca points at Lucy’s dress. “But this is where I draw the line.”
Lucy lifts her head slowly. Her cheeks are flushed. Her mouth is slightly swollen from mine.
I notice. Bianca notices me noticing. Her eyes narrow with satisfaction.
“Lucy,” she says, all brightness again, “come with me.”
Lucy blinks. “Why?”
“Because if you’re going to keep making my brother look like that, we need to dress you properly.”
Lucy looks at me.
I look at Bianca. “No.”
That surprises everyone. Even me. The word comes out too fast. Too firm. Bianca’s expression shifts from triumph to fascination.
Isabella whispers, “Oh, this is better than the kiss.”
Lucy’s gaze moves back to mine. There is a question in it. Maybe more than one. I release her slowly, though every part of me objects.
Then I look at my sister. “Ten minutes.”
Bianca places one hand over her heart. “He negotiates because he cares.”
“I negotiate because you steal things.”
“People are not things.”
“Then stop stealing her.”
Lucy looks between us, lips twitching. “I feel I should object to being discussed as stolen property, but I’m also curious about the dress.”
“See?” Bianca says. “She understands.”
I look at Lucy. “You don’t have to go.”
Her expression softens in a way I do not expect.
“I know.”
She says it the same way she did before I kissed her. As if she believes me and it matters. Then she slips from my reach and takes one step toward Bianca. The absence of her warmth is immediate.
I watch Bianca hook an arm through Lucy’s with the satisfaction of a general claiming territory. Isabella bounces beside them, already asking whether Lucy prefers emerald, black, or “something scandalous enough to make Adriana blink.”
“Nothing scandalous,” I say.
All three women turn back.
Lucy’s brows lift. “Was that an order?”
No. Yes. Damn it.
“It was a suggestion,” I say.
Lucy smiles at me. A real smile, warm and amused and still a little dazed from our kiss. But I do not like watching her go.
Bianca and Isabella lead her down the stairs, their voices already blending into one stream of fashion, teasing, and plans I will almost certainly regret. Lucy glances back once before she disappears.
Lucy does not need to be remade to fit here. She already does. My family has begun claiming her. The greater problem is that so have I.