9. Chapter 9
Lucy
Afew minutes later, I am behind a folding screen, wrestling myself out of the bridesmaid dress while Bianca provides commentary no one asked for and Isabella asks increasingly unhelpful questions.
“So,” Isabella says, “was the kiss better on the yacht or at the reception?”
I nearly strangle myself with a zipper. “That is not an appropriate question.”
“She didn’t ask if it was good,” Bianca says. “She asked for comparison. Very different.”
“It is not different.”
“It’s a little different,” Isabella says.
I yank the green dress over my hips. “I am not ranking kisses.”
“Because the yacht kiss won,” Isabella says.
I poke my head around the screen. “You didn’t even see the first one.”
“I saw Luca after the first one.”
Bianca hums knowingly. “Fair point.”
I disappear again, because my cheeks are doing whatever they want now and discipline has clearly left the vessel.
“I kissed him the first time because of Derek,” I say before I can stop myself.
The room quiets. Not completely. There is still the hum of the engines, the soft swish of fabric, the faint clink of Bianca moving jewelry around. But the sisters go still enough that I feel it.
“Derek is the ex?” Bianca asks.
“Yes.”
“The one you were trying to make jealous?”
I tug the dress into place. “That was the original, deeply mature plan.”
“And now?”
I pause with my hands at my waist. Now. Now Derek feels like a name from the part of the evening before the story changed.
“He doesn’t feel very important anymore,” I admit.
Bianca’s voice is softer when she answers. “Good.”
Something about the simple approval makes my throat tighten. I step out from behind the screen before I can get emotional about being encouraged by a woman who owns more dresses than I own forks.
Both sisters fall silent. That is concerning.
I look down immediately. “What? Is it bad?”
“No,” Isabella says.
Bianca shakes her head slowly. “Not bad.”
“Then why do you look like that?”
“Because,” Bianca says, circling me once, “Luca is going to suffer.”
My stomach flips. “That seems dramatic.”
“It is also accurate.”
Isabella comes to stand beside her. “It’s perfect. You look like the woman in the movie who walks down the stairs and ruins a man’s entire personality.”
“I don’t want to ruin Luca’s personality.”
“You might improve it,” Bianca says.
“Does it need improving?”
Both sisters look at each other, then back at me.
“Yes,” they say together.
I laugh. I can’t help it. The sound loosens something in my chest. Maybe it’s the champagne.
Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time tonight, I’m not trying to prove anything to Derek, not trying to survive Luca’s family, not trying to pretend I understand why any of this is happening.
I’m just standing on a yacht in a borrowed emerald dress while two gorgeous women casually plot the emotional destruction of their brother and apparently pack for the Bahamas the way I pack for a Target run.
There are worse Saturdays. I think. I am not entirely sure anymore.
Bianca steps behind me to adjust the neckline. “There. Better.”
I turn toward the mirror and stop. The woman staring back at me is still me. That’s the strange part. Not transformed into someone else. Not remade into a Moretti-approved version of myself. Just… sharpened. Brightened. Like someone turned up the contrast on a life I had been viewing too dimly.
My auburn hair looks richer against the green. My blue eyes look clearer. My cheeks are still flushed from Luca’s kiss, but instead of making me look embarrassed, it makes me look alive. I look like the kind of woman who might climb into a stranger’s lap and change the course of her evening.
Maybe even his.
Isabella comes to my side, smiling at me in the mirror. “There she is.”
I swallow. “Who?”
“You.”
The word lands softly. Too softly for Isabella, which somehow makes it worse.
Bianca fastens a delicate bracelet around my wrist. “You were already pretty, Lucy. This just makes sure Luca suffers from a distance.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “You’re very invested in his suffering.”
“I’m his sister.”
“That explains everything and nothing.”
A knock sounds at the door. Not loud. Not hesitant. Controlled. Every nerve in my body seems to recognize it before Bianca even smiles.
“Well,” she says, “that didn’t take long.”
Isabella darts to the door, but Bianca catches her by the back of the dress without looking. “No.”
“But I want to see his face.”
“You will. From over here. Like civilized women.”
“You are no fun when you’re managing.”
“I am incredible when I’m managing.”
The knock comes again, and I smooth my hands over the dress, suddenly aware of every inch of myself.
“What if he hates it?” I whisper.
Bianca looks genuinely offended. “Lucy.”
“Right. Sorry. Insult to the dress.”
“Insult to his eyesight.”
Isabella grins. “And his survival instincts.”
Bianca crosses to the door and opens it.
Luca stands on the other side. He doesn’t step in. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me. And for once, Luca Moretti loses his timing.
His gaze moves from my face to the dress and back again with a slowness that makes the room feel warmer. The controlled man from the reception, the yacht, the upper deck, the kiss, all of him goes still in a way that feels more revealing than any words could be.
My pulse stumbles.
Bianca leans against the doorframe, entirely too pleased with herself. “Well?”
Luca does not look at her. Good. Possibly terrible. But good.
“Leave us,” he says.
Bianca smiles. “No.”
His eyes finally cut to hers.
She lifts both hands. “I mean, obviously no. This is my room.”
Isabella whispers, “Also, we live for this.”
I press my lips together, but laughter still escapes. Luca’s gaze returns to me, and something in his expression shifts at the sound. Softens. Darkens. Settles.
“Nonna wants to see you,” he says.
My stomach drops. “Again?”
“Yes.”
“I survived the first time.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m ready for a sequel.”
His mouth curves faintly. “No one ever is.”
Bianca appears beside me and adjusts one last strand of my hair. “There. Go meet the matriarch.”
“I already met her.”
“No,” Isabella says. “You met reception Nonna. Yacht Nonna is different.”
I turn slowly. “Different how?”
All three Morettis look at me.
None of them answer.
“That is very upsetting,” I say.
Luca offers me his hand. Warm and enticing, in the specific way invitations can be dangerous.
I look at his hand, then at his face. The kiss is still between us.
So is the lie. So is the fact that somewhere along the way, I stopped wanting the night to end, even if the night may now apparently include the Bahamas, swimwear, and whatever yacht Nonna is.
I take his hand. His fingers close around mine.
Bianca sighs happily. “Look at that. Fashion saves another romance.”
“This is not a romance,” I say automatically.
Luca’s thumb brushes over my knuckles. “No?”
I look up at him. The answer should be easy.
Fake. Temporary. Accidental. Ridiculous.
But with his hand around mine and the yacht moving beneath us and my reflection still lingering in the mirror like proof that I might be more than the woman Derek left behind, easy answers seem to have abandoned me.
“I don’t know,” I say.
The room goes quiet. For once, even Isabella says nothing. Luca’s gaze holds mine. Then he lifts my hand and presses a slow kiss to my knuckles. My brain, already operating on limited staff, shuts down completely.
“Then let’s find out,” he says.
Bianca makes a tiny squealing sound behind us.
Adriana’s voice comes from somewhere in the hallway. “I heard that.”
Isabella calls back, “You were meant to.”
And Luca leads me out of the room, toward Nonna, toward the next impossible thing, while I walk beside him in an emerald dress that apparently has expectations.
Unfortunately, I am beginning to have a few of my own.