This man has Luca’s long, sooty lashes and gorgeous cheekbones.
No, wait. Luca hashislashes and his defined facial structure. That’s how genetics work.
I blink away the thought, registering that Mr. Steele is waiting for me to answer.
Sheepishly, I reach for the bottle.
The tips of our fingers brush, and champagne bubbles dance in my belly again. It’s unnerving and concerning, how viscerally my body responds to this man.
Once the bottle is in my grasp, he lets go, and I study the orange label, humiliation flooding my nervous system.
It’s definitely lube, and it’s half used.Pulsating Peach. My stomach twists as my mortification soars to new levels.
I’m allergic to pit fruits. Specifically pit-fruit oils.
I dutifully avoid all peach, apricot, or nectarine-flavored or -scented products.
I discovered the allergy the hard way—I had a massive breakout all over my face and chin for seventh grade school pictures after I borrowed a peach lip gloss from Natalie Wrangler.
My throat constricts from a more recent memory. A few months ago, I had the worst itching and burningdown thereafter sex. Luca said it was probably from the hot tub at the hotel we stayed in at the Las Vegas Grand Prix. I let him convince me that had to be it.
In reality, he’d probably slathered this lube all over his dick when he was sleeping with someone else, and then he had sex with me.
Tears well up, becauseew, and also, what the fuck?
I got tested for STIs last week. The results were all clear, luckily. And that’s what it was. Good luck. That’s all I can attribute the outcome to, given all the evidence I’ve discovered that point to weeks of infidelity, if not more.
When I caught Luca cheating on me a few weeks ago, he told me it was just that once. I allowed myself to believe him, because accepting that lie was the kindest thing I could do for myself. I was dumping his ass regardless—but to have proof that he cheated on me on my grandma’s couch and then had the audacity to stick his pit-fruit-coated dick inside me without having the basic human decency to shower in between?
I crush my eyes shut and inhale deeply, willing myself to keep it together.
Hold your nerve. Hold your nerve. Hold your nerve.
I stand straighter and scrunch my nose, refusing to let the tears fall. The last thing I need is to come off as overly emotional in front of Luca’s dad. Especially because I can’t exactly explain that this crusty bottle ofhalf-used lube confirms his son is an even nastier dog than I could have imagined.
Dammit, Luca.
What I wouldn’t give to go back and break up with him again. This time, with gusto.
“Is that yours?” Alaric asks again.
Grimacing, I shake my head. “Wish I could say it was.”
His brow furrows at my response.
God, this man has good eyebrows. They’re dark and thick. Well-defined but not overbearing. Actually, all the hair on this man is doing it for me. I’m fascinated by the waves on his head and the five-o’clock shadow decorating his jaw and upper lip. Does he shave every morning? How quickly does the facial hair grow back? What would that scruff feel like under my fingers?
He clears his throat and tips his chin to the couch that’s being hauled through the open garage bay. “Is that, perhaps, yours?”
I glance over my shoulder and watch the movers cross over the threshold.
“It is,” I admit with a sigh.
He rakes a hand through his hair, which is supremely distracting to me. I want to be that hand. I crave confirmation that his thick hair is as soft as it looks.
“If it’s not too bold, may I ask why you’re putting your couch in my garage?”
My stomach lurches. His garage.
