“Valentine’s Day,” Luca says, like that should be obvious. It is. But for some reason, I felt like I should pretend otherwise.
I shrug one shoulder, cool girl style. “Probably nothing—why? Did you think we should?”
Luca goes completely still, pausing in putting his papers into the folder and raising one eyebrow in my direction, a little smirk on the corner of his lips. “Really, Wren?”
My voice comes out a little too high-pitched. “What?”
We stand quietly for a second, staring at one another, and it’s like without saying a word, we’re both aware of this standoff and what it means. I feel like I have to pretend not to care about Valentines Day—why? Because it’s lame? Or because anyother time I’ve expected something on a holiday, I’ve been disappointed?
Or is it because Luca is not my real boyfriend, and he doesn’t really owe me a date for the day? At this point, I’m not sure there’s much reason to keep up the charade. While the press might love our relationship, and people on the internet are making edits of us, it’s not the same kind of attention it was before.
There’s no press outside the arena, or in Luca’s bushes. The buzz around Mandy is consistently low, which means maybe it’s time for us to stage a quiet break-up.
“I’ll pick you up at eight on Saturday,” Luca says now, like he can hear what I’m thinking and doesn’t like it.
I swallow, watching him shake his head, the way his hair falls onto his forehead. It’s getting longer now, shaggier. I have to bite my tongue to keep from crossing the room and running my hands through it.
A few weeks ago, when he mentioned getting a haircut, I mentioned liking it a little longer. And when I saw him the next day, it wasn’t nearly as short as after his last cut.
“Eight in the evening?” I prompt, cheekily, because of course that’s what he means.
He points at me. “Good question—no, eight in the morning.”
Luca is already walking out of the strategy room, and I turn following him, protest already built up in my chest.
“Eight in the morning?” I question, raising an eyebrow at him. “On our first day off in weeks? You’re going to make me get up early? And that’s supposed to be romantic?”
He turns so quickly it surprises me. I step back, bump into the wall, eyes flicking up to his. He’s smiling, but when he drops his gaze to my lips, his jaw ticks like he’s having to hold himself back from kissing me.
The urge rolls through me to step forward myself, tip up my chin, kisshim. But HR made it clear that public displays of affection at work between employees were not welcome and even frowned upon, even if we’d made our “relationship” official with them—signed all their papers and waivers.
“Trust me,” he says, his voice impossibly low as his eyes flick up from my lips and to my eyes. “It will be worth it.”
***
Luca is at my apartment ten minutes early.
“Seriously?” I ask, throwing open the door and working hard to keep glaring at him as I’m sure a little dribble of toothpaste runs down the corner of my mouth. “You are here way too early.”
His eyes go wide as he looks me up and down, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a twinge of self-consciousness. In public, there’s a certain armor protecting me. But right now, with my hair half-finished and only half dressed, I feel vulnerable.
“Oh, this is a treat,” he says.
I let out a frustrated noise and push away from him, spinning and walking back toward the bathroom.
“You know,” he calls after me, “I thought you were the expert at reading people. You should have known I was going to be ten minutes early.”
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me, and seven minutes later, I’m walking out of the bedroom again, makeup done, hair finished, tucking in my blouse to my skirt.
“Since you didn’t tell me where we’re going,” I complain, looking up at him while I continue to stuff the shirt. “I didn’t know what to wear.”
He’s sitting in my sparse living room, on the couch that came with the fully furnished apartment. When he looks up at me, takes me in, his face goes a sort of careful blank that I’ve come to recognize—he likes it.
“That should be fine,” Lua says.
If I climbed into his lap right now, I wonder what he might do. I have a feeling perfect, on-time Luca McKenzie might just risk being late if I offered him up a different activity to start the day.
But I’m curious about what he has planned, and even with all my posturing, I’m not sure continuing to hook up is the right move. It’s too close, too personal.
