Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Whatever it is, he decides I’m not the worst of it. His hand closes around mine, and the trembling I faked just a few seconds ago hits for real. If there’s anything I won’t live down, it’s that moment. I’d planned a whole hilarious, I’ve been slain, dramatic monologue, but I had to cut the shit when Luca nearly stroked out.
If anyone has for real fainted, gagged, or other bullshit because of his face, which isn’t even that bad, I will find them and force them to sit down and watch hours of their least favorite TV show, all while singing that one catchy song they just can’t get out of their brain. I’m not sure which one that will be. I’ll probably have to custom-tailor it to match for maximum misery.
I think he was joking about that woman passing out.
He had to be.
Fuck.
May her socks forever be destined to step in spontaneous puddles of water that appear in her house.
He gets up on his own and releases my hand. But the lightning storm doesn’t stop.
I flex my fingers as I walk to the way long freaking hell and gone end of the table where the other place setting is laid out. I grab the woven mat underneath the plate, along with the plate and all the utensils, and set them down right near Luca’s seat.
He sinks into his chair like the fight’s gone out of him, deflating with his shoulders hunched forward.
I have an absurd urge to see him smile, or at least put that surprised, entertained tone back in his voice. I whip the lids off the dishes, revealing double-stuffed potatoes, the world’s best-smelling rice, lemon pepper carrots, and dill salmon with a creamy sauce.
I know I need to say something, but what?
I was all chatty freaking Callie when I got here, but now Luca is uncomfortable, and that makes me nervous and edgy, which sends my brain into a tailspin of what the fuck? Also? He’s hot. Not was. Is.
“In case you couldn’t tell, I actually really like your face.” Shit, nothing like jumping straight into the deep end if the deep end is a vat of acid filled with crocodiles super stoked about eating me.
I fill my plate and dig in, groaning as soon as the salmon melts on my tongue.
I don’t even freaking like fish.
But I like this fish.
And I think I might like Luca Carson too.
Shit.
The burning in my body, hardening of my nipples, and tingling south of the border… they don’t care that he was walking this planet before I was even born. He’s almost a quarter of a century older than me, but the way his black button-up shirt and that black jacket cling to his muscular shoulders, pecs, and jacked abs every time he breathes is a point in favor of the age is just a number argument.
He stabs a piece of salmon on his fork and brings it to his plate. It drips sauce across the table, and he hacks at it, not meeting my eyes.
Double shit.
He looks like he doesn’t want to talk to me for the rest of the night. Our window of rapport is over, and I want it back. Not just for my dad’s sake either. Selfishly, I want it back for mine, for that weird connection I felt as soon as we started talking. Brutal honesty worked before, so I offer it again.
I turn to him and ask, “Do you think what happened was a punishment?”
His fork pauses on the way to his mouth. His attention immediately snaps to me, and his lips purse. Since one side naturally downturns with scar tissue, it pushes the other side up into a smirky grimace, which makes him look absolutely adorable.
Truly. The surgeries he’s had have done remarkable things, or he was exaggerating about the damage. Maybe a little bit of both. I know if it were me, I would. They’ve rebuilt his jaw, evidenced by the heavier scar tissue. His cheek is just about symmetrical to the other, but the skin is shiny and raised there, where it was likely grafted. Little white scars pepper around his eye and up across his forehead like a constellation. He must have come so near to losing his eye.
He tilts his face to study me, narrowing his eyes. I don’t break eye contact until he gives me a full visual of his ear. His hairline is bisected by ridges of scars, and it’s obvious he’s had reconstructive surgery along his upper jawline, extending to his ear as well.
“Not that there has to be something,” I whisper, unnerved by how hard his eyes have gotten, green turned to steel in an instant. “But when something changes dramatically, people often look for a reason why. And not finding any logical answer, they call it a curse.”