Chapter 4
Luca froze.
Of course, he froze!
Just for a second. A blink. But I saw it. The very moment his soul left his smug, sculpted body and floated back to that very awkward night.
Sweat dripped down his temple. He wiped it quickly—too quickly.
“Oh, you remember,” I purred, doing a squat just for the drama. “Don’t worry, it didn’t traumatize me or anything. I just spent the next three years writing tragic poetry and swearing off citrus. No big deal.”
He laughed—awkward, unsure. “Andria, you were sixteen.”
“And now I’m twenty-two. Graduated. Legal. Hot. Emotionally unstable in a sexy way. Your point?”
He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or beg for forgiveness. And honestly? I loved it.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you that night,” he said, voice lower now. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”
I shrugged casually, tossing a dumbbell in the air and catching it. “Sure. Very noble. Very knight-in-sweaty-abs. I was just a hormonal idiot with a tragic crush.”
Luca stepped closer. “You weren’t an idiot.”
I turned slowly, meeting his gaze. “But I was crushing on you.”
His jaw clenched. He said nothing.
I leaned in, just a breath away. “Still smug, huh?”
“Only when you look at me like that.”
“I’m not looking,” I whispered. “I’m mocking.”
Then I stepped back, grabbed my water bottle, and tossed him a wink over my shoulder as I left.
“Good chat, Bianchi. Try wearing a shirt next time. I’m trying to recover from emotional wounds and not develop new ones.”
He stood there—visibly sweating now for all the wrong reasons—and I?
I walked out of that gym like I owned the villa, his heart, and my dignity.
Okay. Half my dignity.
Progress.
I was halfway to the gym door, towel slung over one shoulder, dignity firmly recovered and held hostage in one hand, when of course—like he couldn’t help himself—he had to open his perfect mouth.
“Andria,” Luca called out, voice low, casual, dangerously male. “Are you still mad?”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Oh, the nerve.
The audacity. The straight-up chaos of that question.
Mad?
Was I mad that he rejected my teenage kiss like I was offering expired gelato?
Was I mad that he came back into my life looking like a Calvin Klein fever dream and acting like nothing happened?
Was I mad that his sweat had no business glistening on those abs?
OF COURSE I WAS MAD.
But I turned around slowly, smile sweet and sharp as a diamond-studded knife.
“Mad?” I echoed, placing a hand over my heart. “Luca. Please.”
I let out the fakest, most Oscar-worthy laugh I’ve ever faked in my life. Meryl Streep couldn’t.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, tossing my hair like I was done starring in his fantasy. “I got over you a long time ago. Like... acne-phase long ago.”
His brow lifted—oh, the smugness. Like he already knew I was lying. Like he was personally offended that I tried to bluff my way out of still noticing the way his sweatpants were just slightly low. God, I hated that I noticed.
“I mean,” I continued, walking back toward him like I wasn’t waging an internal war, “I was sixteen. Hormonal. Emotionally constipated. You had a motorcycle and arms like a Roman sculpture. It was a tragic phase.”
He crossed his arms. “You’re saying you don’t find me attractive anymore?”
I laughed again—so fake it could be carbon dated.
“Please. I’m over all that. You’re not even my type now. Too smug. Too shirtless. Too... you.”
He smirked. Oh, that infuriating smirk. Like he didn’t believe a word.
“So what is your type now?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Private. Loyal. Non-smirking.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Sounds safe.”
There was a pause. The kind of pause you don’t want to fall into, because it’s loaded. Sticky. Stupid with tension.
And then he stepped closer.
“You say you’re over it,” he murmured, voice husky enough to be illegal, “but you remember everything.”
My throat tightened. “I remember pity. And embarrassment. And swearing off oranges for life.”
“And the kiss?”
I lifted my chin. “Was a mistake.”
He smiled. Slowly. Smugly.
And then—the nerve—he said, “Funny. It didn’t feel like one.”
Boom.
There it was. Full explosion. Emotional bomb detonation. My inner sixteen-year-old shrieked and collapsed dramatically onto a velvet chaise.
I took a deep breath, placed my hand on the door, and said as calmly as possible:
“Thanks for the chat, Bianchi. Let’s do this again never. Maybe when you’re not shirtless and dripping with memories.”
And with that, I walked out.
Graceful. Glowing. Possibly still sweating.
But with my pride mostly intact.
He can smirk all he wants.
I’m over him.
…Right?
That night, I was feeling evil.
Not murder-an-enemy-family evil—more like emotionally damage my childhood crush while looking flawless in silk pajamas kind of evil. The kind of evil that wore red lipstick to a “casual” house dinner and knew exactly which buttons to push.
Enter: Marco D’Angelo.
Six-foot-four. Former military. Broad shoulders. Sharp jawline. Newly hired private security for the Gregori estate.
And most importantly?
Luca didn’t like him.
He didn’t say it, of course. He just did that stiff jaw clench thing when Marco introduced himself with a perfectly accented, “It’s a pleasure to protect someone so stunning, Signorina Gregori.”
Luca’s eye twitched.
Game on.
Dinner was informal, just the household staff, a roast beef so tender it should’ve been illegal, and Papa’s absence looming over the long mahogany table like a golden throne waiting to be filled.
I slid into my chair in a little satin number that clung in all the right places and made sure to sit directly across from Marco. “So,” I said, smiling sweetly while cutting into my food, “Marco, tell me. Is it true you disarmed three armed men with just a butter knife?”
He chuckled, low and delicious. “Actually, that was a fork.”