Chapter 7 #2
I roll my eyes. “How about we just order and get this over with.”
He chuckles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Come on. Give me something. Pretend I’m not the guy who makes you late to everything.”
“You do make me late to everything.”
“Not today.” He meets my gaze across the table—direct, almost serious. “I showed up early. On my own. No excuses.”
I scoff. “One time. Don’t expect a medal.”
“It was the second time, thank you.” He shrugs, looking out the window where a couple paps are still lingering. “Doesn’t have to be the last time. I’m trying, you know. To…earn my spot. For real. Not just coast on the name I was born with.”
The words land heavier than I expect. For a second, the snark dies. I see it—the flicker of something raw under the cocky exterior. The guy who hiked alone yesterday morning, who took my dressing-down on the plane without fighting back.
Then I remember every late arrival. Every smirk. Every time he made fame look easy while I clawed for it.
“Right,” I say, voice flat. “Earn your spot. Because showing up late and charming your way through everything is so hard.”
Luca’s expression shutters. The openness vanishes as though it was never there. He leans forward, elbows on the table, smile back in place but colder now. “Yeah. Forget I said anything.”
He flags the waiter over and orders for both of us—steak for him, salmon for me—as if we’ve done this a hundred times.
And somehow he knows exactly what I would order for myself.
When the food arrives, he laughs at something I say (a dry comment about the lighting being too dim for good photos), loud enough for people at the surrounding tables to look over curiously.
Head thrown back, hand covering his mouth like I’m hilarious.
The paps eat it up—cameras flashing through the glass.
Dinner drags. Small talk. Safe topics. Every time our knees brush under the table, I jolt as though I’ve been shocked. He doesn’t move away.
When the check comes, he pays—quick and casual. We stand. He rounds the table, falls in step beside me as we head for the exit.
Outside, the flashes are brighter. Luca’s hand settles on my lower back—warm, firm, thumb brushing the dip of my spine through my shirt. It’s scripted. It’s for the cameras. But my skin ignites anyway.
He leans in as we walk toward the waiting car, lips close to my ear, breath hot.
“Smile for the nice photographers, baby,” he whispers, voice velvet and mocking. “Wouldn’t want them to think you hate being touched by me.”
The words are snarky, but I’m sure with the way his head is angled that it makes the perfect shot—intimate, teasing, romantic to anyone watching.
But I feel the edge in them. The shutdown from earlier still lingers.
I force a small, tight smile for the cameras. His hand stays on my back the whole way to the car—possessive, steady, and burning through fabric.
The door closes behind us. The SUV pulls away.
The ride back to the hotel is quieter than the way there—no snark, no barbs, just the low hum of the engine and the city lights streaking past the tinted windows.
Luca’s hand is gone from my back the second we’re inside the SUV, but I can still feel the ghost of it—warm, steady pressure right above the waistband of my jeans.
My skin prickles like it’s waiting for him to put it back.
I stare out the window, heart hammering inside my chest.
He’s staring out his window now, elbow propped on the armrest, chin in his hand.
He’s not wearing the typical makeup he does for our shows.
His face looks softer without it—still unfairly handsome, but more human.
The platinum blond hair is mussed from running his fingers through it during dinner, a few strands falling into his eyes.
His lips are bare, just their natural pink, no deep stain to make them look kissed or bitten. He looks tired. Almost vulnerable.
I hate that I notice. Hate that it makes something twist in my chest.
The SUV slows at the private entrance to the hotel—back alley, no valet, no paps. Harry made sure of that. No cameras waiting to catch the “goodnight kiss” or whatever bullshit they’d spin. Just the quiet click of the door locks disengaging.
Luca unbuckles first. He doesn’t look at me.
“Fun night, Jung,” he says, voice low and mocking, the sarcasm so thick it’s almost lazy. “You’re a natural at faking it. Almost had me convinced you didn’t hate every second my hand was on you.”
He pops the door open, cool night air rushing in. One foot already on the pavement.
I open my mouth—ready to fire back something sharp, something safe—but the words stick.
Because he’s right. I didn’t hate it. Not even close.
And the worst part is I’m pretty sure he knows it, or at least suspects.
There was something in the way he held my gaze for an extra beat when his palm settled on my lower back.
Or the way his thumb brushed once—feeling knowing—before he urged me into the SUV.
He pauses halfway out, one hand on the doorframe, and glances back over his shoulder. His eyes catch the interior light—shadowed with something I can’t quite read.
“Next time,” he says, quieter now, almost as if he’s talking to himself more than me, “maybe try not looking so surprised when I touch you. Ruins the illusion.”
Then he’s gone—door shutting with a soft thud, long strides carrying him toward the service entrance without a backward glance. The SUV rocks slightly as he disappears inside.
I sit there for a second longer, breath shallow, heart thudding too hard against my ribs. The driver doesn’t move. He’s waiting for me to get out so he can leave.
I unbuckle slowly. Push the door open. Step out into the cool air.
Luca’s already inside. Gone.
I stand there alone in the alley, hands shoved in my pockets, staring at the spot where he vanished.
The snark was armor. The shutdown earlier at dinner was armor. I know him well enough to read that. But tonight—his hand on my back, his whisper in my ear, the way his body leaned into mine just enough to sell the fantasy—none of that felt fake or pretend.