Chelsea shifts her expression, sharpening her line of questioning. “And what about the team? It’s been hard to miss the rumors coming out of the locker room lately.”
I stiffen, hoping to avoid the subject of the fallout—theCroixof it all—entirely. But Luca’s response catches me off guard.
“The team is making headway,” he says easily. “As you saw today, Croix and I are on the mend, punctuated by the fact that he willingly carried me off the pitch.”
“Field,” I correct, smiling. I’ve been aggressively beefing up my soccer terminology since taking on my first sports client/husband.
But then the weight of his words actually registers, and I forget the cameras are even there. “So, really? You and Croix seriously patched things up?”
“Getting there,” is all he says, taking a sip of his water. It’s a short answer, but it’s the most hopeful thing I’ve heard in weeks. My heart lightens, not just for him, but for us. If the ghost of their rivalry is finally being laid to rest, maybe there’s actually room for us to breathe. All of us.
When the crew finally packs up and the elevator bell dings their departure, Luca doesn't move. He just sits there, his gaze tracking me as I begin tidying up the discarded medical wrappers and water bottles left by the crew.
“Aspen,” he says, his voice low and vibrating with a sudden, dark intensity.
I look up. He’s shifted on the sofa, his eyes hooded and dark. He looks...inflamed. Not from the pain, but from the way he seems to be searing a hole through me.
“Yeah?”
“That was quite the performance for Chelsea,” he says, his gaze tracing the line of my throat. He sounds breathless, his pulse visible in the hollow of his neck. “The pillows, the water, the way you kept touching me...was all of that just for the cameras? It was to make sure we looked the part, right?”
I pause, his bottle of pain pills in my hand. I think about the way my heart stuttered when I saw him being carried into the auditorium today. I think about the way I’ve already cleared my schedule just to make sure he doesn't have to so much as reach for a remote the next few days. And the way he’s been quietly and infuriatingly giving me my space.
I shake my head slowly. “No, Luca. It wasn’t for the cameras.”
The look that crosses his face is predatory and unstoppable. It’s the look of a man who is physically trapped on a couch, forbidden from moving, yet suddenly burning with the desire to do a thousand things that would definitely violate Dr. Shoup’s orders. The arrogance is gone, replaced by a raw hunger that makes the air in my lungs feel too thin.
“Wife,” he breathes, the word vibrating deep in his chest. I never thought I’d be the kind of woman to enjoy a man being so possessive over me, but the sound of it sends a sudden, answering heat through my veins.
My pulse hammers against my throat, my feet rooted to the floor. “Yes?”
“Come here,” he commands, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl that leaves no room for negotiation. “Now.”
Chapter Thirty
Blackout Blinds, Lace Bras + the Altar of Truth
Luca
“Come here. Now.”
I can tell my tone is startling her, maybe even scaring her a bit. But the time for being on my best behavior has long passed. I’m done being the patient observer, and I’m done giving her the polite distance she needs to figure out how much she misses me.
I can see the truth written in her eyes right now. She isn't just nursing a patient, she’s reaching for her husband. She misses me just as much as I’m starving for her.
And at this very fucking moment, I’m hungry for my wife.
Watching her today—the way she tended to me, the way her resolve fell apart as the hours passed—was all the confirmation I needed. My plan is working. My wife is coming back to me.
“I…” She pauses, retreating toward the kitchen island to set the pill bottle down. This is actually fun to watch. She’s looking for a way to escape the sudden heat in the room.
“I’m not sure how I feel about your tone,” she breathes, though she makes sure to keep distance between us, knowing I can’t get to her. At least, not quickly.
“Does it scare you?” I ask. I watch the rapid rise and fall of her chest and the way she avoids my gaze, but I don’t give her the comfort of looking away.
“Again… I’m not sure.”
“Does it bother you?”
