Chapter 16 Luca
The worst is over.
And by that, I mean Christmas at my parents’ house. That is the worst.
At least I’m not the only one who thinks so—my brothers are just as allergic to holiday cheer in the Hamptons, yet somehow, we all keep showing up every damn year.
After spending two full days with my family, I came away with news.
Insights. Epiphanies.
First off—Lauren Green was there. Not just there, but practically wrapped around my brother on the back deck.
So yeah. It’s only a matter of time before that little secret goes public.
How do I feel about it? A little jealous. But also… a little happy for him. He finally figured out whatever the hell’s been going on between them. And that’s where my epiphany comes in.
If my brother—the same guy who spent years tormenting Lauren Green—can get over himself and go after what he wants… then why the hell can’t I?
Not Lauren.
Emma. Why am I not going after Emma Green with everything I’ve got?
I mean, let’s be real—hating her clearly isn’t working. I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried.
But I can’t do it.
And we both know there’s still something between us. She still looks at me like I’m the beginning and the end of her favorite story. And yeah… she gets jealous when she sees me with someone else.
So…
Why the hell am I not doing something about it?
For someone with my IQ, I can be unbelievably fucking dumb sometimes.
The entire time during Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, all I could think about was her.
Emma. Alone in her apartment, probably FaceTiming her family.
And I swear, at one point, I heard her voice echoing from Lauren’s phone somewhere in my parents’ house, and I had to dig my fingers into the damn couch just to stop myself from asking to talk to her.
I wanted to get on the first available flight and make her mine.
I didn’t. I held back as long as I could.
But for now, I keep myself entertained by watching her like some unhinged stalker from my office. I watch her smile. Watch the way she explains something to her team; she insists on calling them colleagues, but let’s be honest, she’s their boss.
“Mr. Walker?” Brenda’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a slap.
Right. I was in the middle of a meeting.
“Yes, Brenda?” I mutter, annoyed, eyes still locked on the woman who haunts my every waking thought.
My fingers toy with the pen from Great Ideas. I know it’s Emma’s. And yeah, I like knowing I have something of hers in my possession.
“I was going over your calendar. The New Year’s party is coming up.”
I finally glance at her. Brenda’s standing just inside the doorway, tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. Her expression is that familiar blend of polite and petrified—always mildly terrified of me, even after all these months. Good.
“Right. Are all the guests confirmed?”
“Yes.” She swallows, shoulders straightening as if bracing for impact. “About ninety percent of the office will attend.”
“And the Great Ideas team?”
Her smile falters. Tightens at the edges. She grips the tablet harder, knuckles whitening, clearly trying to gauge if this is one of those moments where she’s about to get metaphorically dismembered.
“They… weren’t invited, sir. They’re not Property Group employees.”
Both my eyebrows go up. My chair creaks as I lean back slowly, fingers tapping once against the desk. Who the hell gets to decide who I can and can’t invite to my own goddamn New Year’s party?
“But if you’d like…” she rushes, words tumbling out, “I can send them the invitation.”
“Do it.” My voice is low, even—but sharp enough to cut glass.
Her chin jerks in a frantic nod. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s all.” My gaze flicks toward the door, a silent dismissal.
Like the terrified little mouse she is, Brenda scurries out, nearly fumbling the handle in her haste. The echo of her heels fades down the hall, leaving only the hum of the city outside the glass wall and the faint scent of espresso from the untouched cup cooling on my desk.
I hope it’s not too late to send the invite. I need to see Emma at that party. Maybe I’ll finally get an excuse to close the distance. Maybe it’ll be the first real step toward what I want.
My phone lights up, screen buzzing against the wood. A notification from LoveLamb’s Instagram.
I frown, thumb hovering over the screen. She’s sitting at her desk right now. Normally, she only posts from home.
It’s a black-and-white photo of her hand.
Delicate. Bare. No fucking engagement ring. And she’s holding the same sticky note I left on her desk on her first day at Property Group—the one that says Emma.
Weird.
She’s always guarded about her name. Her socials are anonymous. Always.
My fingers move on their own as I type from my anonymous account.
Gargoth:
Emma? Is that your name?
LoveLamb:
Yes. Nice to meet you, Gargoth.
A laugh slips out of me through my nose. I glance up—and there she is, smiling at her screen with that look.
God, I’m jealous of myself.
I want Luca to be the one making her smile like that.
Gargoth:
So, your hand isn’t just talented… It’s beautiful too.
LoveLamb:
Thanks, Gargoth. You’re the only one who always leaves me kind comments.
Gargoth:
Come on, I’m sure there’s a long line of guys flooding your DMs with the same compliments.
She stares at her phone, thoughtful. I wonder who she’s thinking about.
Please let it be me.
LoveLamb:
Don’t be so sure.
Gargoth:
Well, here I am—if you don’t mind putting me first on the list.
I look up and—
Shit.
Emma’s eyes are locked right on mine from across the office.
I instantly drop my phone and pretend to be deeply fascinated by my monitor. My phone buzzes again, and it’s killing me not to respond.
I swear she’s still watching me.
BUT—
I’m not that old. Thirty is the new twenty, right? So, I pull up Instagram on my desktop and keep chatting from there.
LoveLamb:
I feel like I’ve known you my whole life, Gargoth. Is that normal?
My fingers fly across the keys.
Gargoth:
I don’t think it’s normal. I think it only happens once in a lifetime.
LoveLamb:
That’s what I was afraid of.
Gargoth:
Do you believe in fate?
LoveLamb:
I believe in coincidences.
Gargoth:
A coincidence is something that has no apparent causal connection.
LoveLamb:
I know what a coincidence is, Gargoth.
Gargoth:
Sorry.
I just meant, for something to be a coincidence, it has to be random. And I don’t think this is random at all. Your work speaks to me. There’s a reason for that.
LoveLamb:
What reason?
Gargoth:
It carries your essence.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her. Still staring at her screen, spinning side to side in her chair.
Maybe I can’t break through the wall built by my past with her…
But Gargoth?
Gargoth’s got no rules.
It’s Friday when I look up and see Emma standing at my office door.
“Em…” I say, caught off guard. She’s never come near my office, and I hate how stupidly happy I feel seeing her there.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Because it’s already night, and you’re still here.”
I glance out the window and frown when I realize it’s completely dark outside. “What the hell? Where did the time go?”
“Time is a social construct,” she replies with a mischievous smile.
That used to be my line when we were younger. I can’t believe she remembers.
I smile, shut my laptop, and start gathering my things. “What about you? Do you always stay this late?”
“Sometimes. I was just wrapping up the day.”
“Do you wanna… grab something to eat?” My voice wavers. Because yeah—I’m nervous as hell.
Emma checks her watch. It’s old and worn, and for a second, I wonder if there’s a story behind it. She used to ask about the story behind every object. “I don’t think anything’s open at this hour. It’s almost nine-thirty.”
“This is Miami, Em. Everything’s open.”
I nearly reach for her hand. Instead, I gesture toward the elevator. As I walk down the hall, I hear her footsteps behind me. I probably look calm on the outside. Inside, I’m grinning like a maniac.
Alone time with Emma Green is still something my body craves.
I don’t take her somewhere fancy—she never liked the polished, upscale places my family dragged us to. I remember that clearly. So, I pick a little restaurant on Collins, I usually hit when I’ve worked too late. Or when I’m pretending dinner with the love of my life isn’t a date.
The place is called Sentimiento Latino—loud, chaotic, packed with colors and textures. The walls are covered in mismatched paintings, gold frames, clashing styles, and even the ceiling’s a mess of art. The chairs don’t match. Nothing makes sense, and that’s exactly what I love about it.
Emma lights up as soon as we walk in, weaving between tables, searching for the best spot. “Where do you wanna sit?” she asks over her shoulder.
I point to the farthest table in the back. I like privacy, especially with her.
The waitress brings us menus. Emma asks for water. I ask for wine.
Because I need it.
“I’ve been researching Troy Lozano,” she says, eyes still on the menu.
That name freezes me mid-sip. I hate hearing it come from her mouth. “And?” I cough, trying to sound unaffected.
Emma sets her menu down and folds her arms across the table. “Well, for starters—he’s younger than you.” Thanks, Em. “He’s super active on social media, shares his life all over the place, invests heavily in ads, and he’s got the whole family-man image.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“Well… in the polls, you have a bad public image, Luca. That’s why you’re second in the market.”
“Bad image? I’m a freaking saint.” I don’t mean to make her laugh. But I do.
“Pfft. Wanna see what Google says when I search your name?” she teases, pulling out her phone.
Photos of me at events, always with some stunning woman on my arm. A few at parties, looking… yeah, not my best.
I glance at her, mildly embarrassed, but hide it behind my usual deadpan stare. “People shouldn’t care about my image as long as I do my job well.”