Chapter 30 Luca
When I went to collect our costumes for week five, the Wardrobe staff said Matilda’s needed a few final touches. By the time they called an hour later to say it was ready, I was midway through hair and makeup, so Matilda skipped off to collect it.
She returned after an hour, ready and made-up.
The dress was so fucking short.
No wonder it hadn’t been ready earlier; it looked like it had taken days to make.
It was an almost transparent white dress shimmering with thousands of tiny crystals.
The delicate spaghetti straps led into a neckline that highlighted the curve of her breasts.
Her hair, which was often secured in a ponytail, had been left down in long blond waves and embellished with a few of the same crystals that covered her dress. I was pretty sure I was drooling.
Unaware of my mental breakdown, she twirled and said, “What do you think?”
The back was almost better. The skirt fell over the tempting swell of Matilda’s ass and hung around her upper thighs. As she turned, the skirt whooshed at the highest point of her curved legs, and blood rushed straight to my dick.
I forced my gaze up to meet her dimpled smile. If I ever met anyone who said Matilda Stevens wasn’t the most beautiful woman in any room, I would write them off as completely deluded.
“You look incredible.”
“Luca, you flirt.” She laughed it off, pushing my arm lightly as she passed to refresh her lip gloss.
This was my life now: tracking every smile, every toss of her hair, noticing every ridiculous detail about her. It was driving me insane. Yet I couldn’t stop.
Since that night at the bar earlier in the week, images of her sprawled on my bed had been driving me fucking crazy.
Naked. Tanned skin, curves, and a halo of blond hair.
I wanted her lips against mine, her legs wrapped around my waist, and I’d spent far too much time in the shower last night with my hand wrapped around my—
She waved her hand in front of my face, laughing. “Earth to Luca. You OK?”
I cleared my throat and grabbed the water bottle off the vanity, chugging it down. What the fuck’s wrong with me?
“You’re looking pretty good yourself,” she confessed. I wore a simple outfit—black pants and a white shirt that was only buttoned up halfway. I didn’t miss the way Matilda’s eyes lingered on the exposed skin.
I’d take it to the grave before I’d admit it, but I was glad I’d worked out that morning.
“Your hair looks perfectly messy, too. They’ve done a fantastic job of making you every girl’s wet dream.” She chuckled, a subtle curve appearing at the side of her lips. “Want to know a secret?”
“Always.” I took another swig of water.
“Lily had a poster of you on her wall as a teenager, and we used to pretend to kiss it.”
Water burst out of my mouth; I was unable to contain my laugh, and Matilda joined in too.
“You didn’t.” I threw the empty bottle in the trash.
“We did.” She hid her face behind her hands. “Everyone was obsessed with you when we were at school. God, I’d love to go back and tell my preteen self that we’d end up on an ice-skating show together. I think she’d die.”
We continued laughing and reminiscing about our awkward teenage years—and how different they’d been.
My first kiss had been on a set with fifteen cameras and a whole crew watching, and hers had been in a game of truth-or-dare at the park.
She had only missed her strict curfew once, when she was sixteen on vacation (she’d never done it again, because her mom had found her kissing a boy behind the beach bar), and her family dinners hadn’t been family dinners unless there was an argument.
I told her that I’d never had a curfew and, when my mother was visiting the UK, my father wouldn’t even notice if I’d been gone for days.
A quick knock sounded on the door, as someone with a headset and clipboard stuck their head into the room. “Backstage in five.”
They darted away before we could reply. I stood and held out my hand. Matilda took it, letting me drag her up off the sofa.
“It’s showtime,” she said with a dazzling smile. “Let’s go show those producers who their Johnny Castle is.” I grabbed our skates from the floor and led the way out.
I tied Matilda’s laces as part of our pre-skate ritual. The heavy beats from the performance before ours calmed my nerves.
Patting her foot to signal they were done, I moved on to mine and followed Matilda to the backstage part of the ice. I stepped behind her and grabbed her hands, as I always did. Arguably, it was earlier than necessary, but I wasn’t getting into semantics.
A minute or two later, once the judges had commented on Asha and Alice’s performance (which scored one point lower than their skate last week), the host’s voice echoed through the studio. “And now, welcoming to the ice Luca Vasvault and his partner, Matilda Stevens.”
We pushed off and skated onto the rink, the slicing of our skates silenced by the crowd’s cheers.
Looking out, I saw the same dark curtain of the crowd, the same cheering, the same rink, but something felt different.
We glided to a halt at the center of the ice, turning to the crowd and opening our arms wide, introducing ourselves before twisting to sit on the ice in our starting position.
I caught Matilda’s gaze for a few seconds and any lingering anxiety from wanting this skate to go well evaporated.
We were going to kill it. I trusted her, she trusted me—and, looking into her eyes, I knew we felt completely in sync.
The soulful notes of “At Last” floated through the studio, smooth and rich, and the crowd cheered when they recognized the timeless love song.
And we began.
We moved together, our timing aligning perfectly.
The skate opened with the most important part—the Dirty Dancing–style lift.
The ice was freezing on my legs, but I ignored it.
Moments after the skate started, my hands were on her waist and she was in the air, hovering above me.
The bright glow of the studio lights illuminated her face as she smiled.
We weren’t even a millisecond out of time—the lift was perfect.
As I lowered Matilda and she pressed against me, I couldn’t think of anything other than how perfect her body felt against mine.
But then she rolled, and I stood, taking her hands, guiding her up and forward into the following sequence.
Our blades etched precise, slashing lines across the ice, muted beneath the strains of violin music. I matched Matilda’s twirls with solid, sharp strokes. Her skirt fluttered with each movement, catching the light and making the crystals sparkle. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
She had never looked more alive.
Everything blurred into a sheet of sparkling white, leaving the two of us dancing as one, moving as one. The music swelled, and our movements grew faster. We spun across the ice, building to our final position.
I stopped a second before Matilda did, facing the crowd. She dug her blades into the ice, sending up a spray of shards before twisting and free-falling into my waiting arms. I caught her, dipping her body backward in a lover’s embrace. Our breaths mingled, and her eyes sparkled with joy.
And I pressed my lips to hers.