Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
“Except that you have.”
“But I didn’t know that would happen, obviously. Now, please, can we talk about something that actually matters? Namely, me helping you make it to the end of training camp?”
The expression on Luca’s face reflects nothing but amusement, which causes an intense feeling of déjà vu to wash over me. Way back when, he looked at me this exact same way while we were eating our ice cream cones, as I recall, while I explained my love of math to him. I’ve never forgotten that precise moment because after I finished explaining how “totally me” I feel while solving a complex math problem, Luca grinned at me and said, “That’s exactly how I feel while I’m on the field in a football game.”
“Have I said something to amuse to you?” I snap. I didn’t mean to ask the question in such a snippy tone, but the warm and fuzzy memories flooding me aren’t welcome ones. On the contrary, I don’t need or want the distraction of feeling a damned thing regarding Luca Maguire, other than professionalism and focus.
Luca takes a big bite of his food and answers simply, “I just find you extremely entertaining, that’s all. Who’s this Matty Whoever person you were nothing like?”
“Huh? Oh. Mata Hari. She was a famous spy in World War I. Men never suspected her because they couldn’t fathom a woman being smart enough to get the better of them. My point is that I had to lie out of necessity, unlike Mata Hari, because you were a prince from an enemy kingdom, and I—”
“You thought of me as a prince?” He snickers. “Finally, the woman tells the truth!”
“From a rival kingdom. Don’t forget that part. To me, you were a Montague and I was a Capulet.”
An epiphany visibly slams into him. “That’s what you meant when you said ‘Montague’ before bolting out of my hotel room?”
“I didn’t bolt. I left calmly and politely because I needed to get a good night’s sleep for the finals the next day. But yes, that’s what I meant. I was mad at myself for letting my relatively harmless flirtation with a Montague over breakfast get so totally out of control.”
Luca runs a large palm over his face. “And here I thought you were calling me Romeo because you didn’t believe a word out of my mouth.”
“Why on earth would you think that?”
“Don’t people call lover-boy types who come on way too fast and strong Romeo? Isn’t that a thing?”
“Maybe, yeah. But that’s not what I meant at all.” I’m tempted to comment that the “lover boy” tag might not be too far off when it comes to Luca, based on what I’ve seen of his online presence over the years. Certainly, whenever I broke my rule and googled him, Luca’s social media was filled with all manner of gorgeous girls hanging off him—and I couldn’t help noticing none of those girls made it into subsequent posts.
But since that comment would require me to admit I’ve googled him in the first place—and repeatedly—I lean back in my chair instead, fold my arms, and say, “I’m sorry you’ve been tortured for seven long years about me whispering the word ‘Montague’ without further explanation. I assure you, torturing you wasn’t my intention. All I cared about was keeping our brief time together a secret forever.”
“Who was I going to tell?”
“Um, anyone and everyone?” When he scoffs, I add, “You’re telling me, if you’d known you made out with Coach Parker’s daughter, you wouldn’t have immediately blabbed the story to anyone who’d listen?”
“Not if you’d asked me to keep quiet about it.”
“Bullshit, Luca. You would’ve at least told your big brother, and you know it. And once you did that, the news would have traveled fast in our very, very small world and made it back to my father and brothers.”
He pulls a face that concedes the point. “I never said I was tortured, by the way. Just deeply confused. I thought I did something terrible to you that night, and I’ve felt huge regret and shame about it ever since.”
“For seven years?”
Luca shrugs in a way that confirms, yes, that’s the case.
“Luca, feeling ‘huge regret and shame’ about something for seven long years is the very definition of being tortured.”
He twists his beautiful lips and doesn’t deny it this time.
“Look, you didn’t do anything wrong that night, okay? On the contrary, everything you did and said … and offered to do … was extremely good, and I was totally on board with all of it. Too on board, if you must know, which is why I left when I did, even more so than needing sleep for the next day’s finals.”
Luca tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling again with a loud sigh. When he returns to me, he says, “Hasn’t anyone ever told you football rivalries are supposed to be fun? They’re not supposed to ruin the best night of your life, Chelsea.”