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nova

B y the time I pull into my spot and kill the engine, my hands are still tingling. Not from nerves, exactly. From memory.

Luca’s headlights fade behind me as he parks in the space across the lot intended for guests; I don’t move right away. I sit there, gripping the steering wheel like it might ground me, like it can hold back the flood of everything I’m trying not to replay in vivid, aching detail.

His hands on my waist.

The rough brush of his knuckles grazing my skin.

The way he leaned in behind me like his body belonged pressed against mine…

And God, the way his voice cracked when he told me to stop teasing him.

His command was so weak. The literal exact opposite of stop.

He wants me so bad.

An excited shiver works its way up my spine, and I press my lips together as I glance over at the grocery bags Luca set on my passenger seat.

“Get it together—stop being nervous,” I tell myself. “You invited him to your place. You started this. ”

This is your own damn fault!

Poppy would die right now if she knew I’d invited him back to my place after insisting I wouldn’t. She will be so fucking proud when I tell her.

I resist the urge to message her, knowing it would trigger an onslaught of rapid-fire texts, and her foaming at the mouth if I don’t respond immediately.

Luca is beside my car, unloading the two grocery bags and we fall into step, heading toward the elevator in the parking garage. Our arms brush occasionally, quiet stretching between us.

But it’s not awkward.

It’s thick , if that makes sense.

Like every word we’re not saying is hanging in the air with us.

I press the elevator button; when the doors slide open, we step in.

Luca stands close. I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace…

The doors slide shut.

The silence hums.

Luca shifts, the bags rustling in his arms. We touch, our hips bumping, but this time neither of us move away. Not that there’s all that much space in this small space…

“You always this quiet after luring a man into your lair?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

“My lady lair.” I nod. “Yes, I don’t want to make any sudden movements and scare you off.”

He snorts. “Not likely.”

The elevator dings as it passes the tenth floor. Nine more to go…

His voice drops. “You nervous?”

“Not at all,” I lie way too fast.

He just grins. “That’s cute.”

The doors slide open and I flee the cramped elevator car, leading the way to my door with way too much energy. Luca chuckles under his breath behind me, enjoying my nervous verve.

“Do I get a tour?” he asks as I fish around my messenger bag for my keys.

“Of course. Once we take the groceries out of the bags.”

I shove the heavy door open and step inside first, the cool blast of AC and the lingering scent of my Amalfi Lemon candle wrapping around us.

Luca follows me through the threshold, bags in hand, and barely takes two steps in before pausing mid-stride.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“This your place?” he asks, turning in a slow circle, taking in the exposed brick walls, high ceilings with raw beams, and the afternoon sunlight spilling through oversized industrial windows, warming the wide-plank hardwood floors.

A smile tugs at my lips.

It’s impressive, I know.

I take the grocery bags from his hands and plop them on the kitchen island.

He wanders over, fingers brushing the edge of the cold stone. “This is insane. Like, insane-insane . Rent must be?—”

“I don’t pay it,” I confess, unable to look him in the eyes when I say it.

It’s not like I’m proud.

“Oh?”

“Gio,” I say, already rooting through a bag, “used to live in the penthouse upstairs. Bought it and this apartment then decided the suburbs were more his speed after Austin got pregnant and now…” I clear my throat. “It’s just me in the building.”

Luca leans against the counter, clearly impressed. “Remind me to ask him to adopt me. My house sucks.”

“Well. Play your cards right and I’ll let you hang out here every now and again.” I pull the lemons from the supplies and add them to a bowl in the middle of my island, then the rosemary. Out comes the chicken, parm, and olive oil…

I dust the invisible dirt off my hands and rest them on my hips. “Tour?” I ignore the flutter in my heart. “There’s not much to it, actually—the apartment is mainly living room.”

It feels like it’s a massive space, thanks to the high ceilings.

“Back in the day, this building used to be a factory.” I begin walking toward the hallway as Luca trails along after me, head on a swivel. “It’s this room, plus a bedroom, office, and bathrooms.”

One full, one half.

Plenty for one person.

He peeks into my office, whistling again as he takes in the cozy atmosphere. The large reclaimed wood desk that I found at an estate sale, a tall bookshelf filled with novels, and the overstuffed couch. TV on the far wall. Fake olive tree I bought at Costco after seeing it on social media.

“I’m so into this.”

I don’t let him linger.

I keep walking, pointing out doors as I pass. “Guest bath,” I say, pointing to the next door. “Feel free to use it if you need to go. Bedroom is down here, but we’re not going there.”

“We’re not?” He raises a brow.

“Nope.” I spin on my heel, already halfway back to the kitchen. “Danger zone. Not taking chances.”

“Not taking chances on what ?” he calls after my retreating figure, amusement dripping from his voice.

“On me,” I mutter under my breath, beelining it toward the island like it’s home base in a game of tag.

Horny.

Tag.

He laughs behind me.

“What I’m hearing is, you don’t think you can keep your hands to yourself and think we should hang out in the kitchen where it’s safe. ”

“Exactly.” I reach for a sauté pan. “This is a sacred, safe space. Like church.”

“When is the last time you were in a church? Be honest.”

“Uh. Six months ago smart-ass, when my friend Bethany almost got married.”

Luca plucks an almond out of the bowl kept on the counter and pops it in his mouth, chewing. “How does one almost get married?”

“She changed her mind.”

Real talk: we all knew the engagement was doomed from the get-go. Emmit, her fiancé, was a finance bro with zero emotional range and an obsession with crypto currency. Total douche.

Never made time for her.

He was already married to his job.

“She got to the altar, stared at him for maybe five seconds, then just turned around and walked back down the aisle. No big scene, no meltdown. Just a power exit.”

Luca’s eyes widen. “She ghosted him at the altar?”

“In front of three hundred guests. I was in the second row with my jaw on the floor. It was incredible.” Admirable.

He is hanging on my every word. “What happened after?”

I shrug, taking the chicken out of the parchment paper. “She went on the honeymoon alone and slept with a few strangers, laid on the beach, got sunburnt. When she returned home, she was stronger and more fierce than ever.”

“Damn.”

“Everyone loves Bethany. We went to high school together and have been friends ever since. She's the most self-aware person I know. Like, she knew she couldn’t marry someone just because the invitations had been mailed out.”

“Sounds like an expensive mistake,” Luca says, rolling up his sleeves.

I hand him a lemon, a knife, and point to the cutting board. “Totally worth it. That’s the cost of freedom, baby.”

“My kind of girl.” He slices the lemon with slow, steady precision, as if he’s afraid to slice his finger off. “So…what’s next, Chef?”

I gesture toward the rosemary and olive oil. “Coat the chicken, season it, arrange it pretty in the pan. You can handle that, right?”

“If you say so,” he replies, brows furrowed in concentration as he drizzles olive oil with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.

I suppress a smile. “Relax. It’s dinner—not brain surgery.”

“Easy for you to say. You look like you know what you’re doing.” He glances at me sideways, worrying his bottom lip. “I can’t impress you if I hack off my damn fingers.”

He is so cute.

I love the fact he’s taking this seriously.

Luca is so hyper focused on perfectly placing each lemon slice into a roasting pan, I have to look away before I blurt something ridiculous like , I’m already impressed. I think you’re adorable.

Because the truth is…I already was.

It’s not the knife skills—or the way he listens when I explain things. It’s the way he already looks like he fits into my space; it already feels like we’ve done this dozens of times before. The flirting. The banter. I feel so…

Comfortable with him. He belongs in my kitchen, sleeves rolled up, slinging sarcastic comments by way of flirting.

It’s terrifying, actually.

I didn’t invite him up for this—for connection . For cozy domesticity. For intimacy.

I invited him up for fun. A distraction.

A lark.

So why does he already feel like a more ?

My eyes stray to the spot below his ear where his hair is curling at the nape of his neck and I lick my lips.

God, Nova, get a grip.

He doesn’t even notice, which somehow makes it worse.

I’m not just attracted to him. I like watching him. I like the way he hums under his breath when he concentrates. The way he makes me laugh without trying and makes my stomach drop without touching me.

I know I should slam the brakes.

I know I should remind myself this was supposed to be light and forgettable because if Gio catches us dating, he will make Luca’s life a living hell.

This evening is something I’ll laugh about with Poppy later, but I can’t help but wonder…

He glances over his shoulder and catches me looking, his smile going crooked, like he knows I’m enthralled with him.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he teases.

“Simply making sure you’re not screwing up my chicken.” I scoff. “I’m hungry.”

He pauses, gaze going straight to mine. “Same.”

His voice is low. Much rougher than before.

Not just hungry.

Hungry for me .

The kitchen is suddenly too warm, too quiet—as if the air was holding its breath right along with me.

I reach for the salt, pretending I didn’t hear the innuendo. “Well, let’s get the food in the oven, then. Before one of us does something stupid.”

He doesn’t move. Watches me for a beat. “Define stupid .”

I swallow. “Anything that results in Gio showing up at my door with duct tape and a shovel.”

Even as the words leave my mouth, I inwardly cringe. Why am I letting my dumb brother control my actions?! THIS IS MY LIFE!

Mine!

Once the chicken is ready, we walk to the oven and slide it onto the rack. I shut the door with more force than necessary and set the timer. The scent of lemon and rosemary already lingers in the air, rich and delicious .

Luca finally moves, standing closely, his shoulder brushing mine.

“So…” he says, casually. “Now what do we do with ourselves?”

My eyes slide to his mouth, betraying me.

His chest.

Narrow waist.

Giant hands. Tanned, with veins on the backs of them that are better than porn.

I slide my eyes back to his face; his eyes are smiling and his mouth is grinning.

I roll my eyes and start the clean-up. “Now we clean up.”

He laughs at my transparency and begins picking up—grabbing a sponge from the sink and wiping down the stone counter. Rinses the cutting board. Wipes out the sink, gathers the utensils used in prepping the dinner, humming the entire time.

I am a child.

An immature, emotionally underdeveloped idiot who invited him here thinking she could handle this.

I cannot.

We work in a rhythm—he rinses, I wipe, we bump hips a few times, and each one is followed by an exchange of those little looks that last half a beat too long.

“Okay, seriously,” I say finally, drying the last bowl. “How often have you done this?”

“Done what?”

“Disarmed a woman with your amazing culinary skills.”

He stares blankly, tossing the yellow terry cloth dish towel over one shoulder. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

Ugh! Is he going to make me say it?!

He is.

I can see it in his eyes. They’re sparkling .

“You know damn well what I’m getting at!” I laugh, tossing the sponge onto the counter and crossing my arms, well aware that his eyes will go to my boobs. “You’re helpful. Funny. Competent.” I huff. “It’s so annoying. Is this a trap?”

“A trap?” he echoes, clearly delighted by my irritation. “Because I know how to clean a dish?”

Yes.

Yes, God dammit!

His grin is slow and wicked . “You think I’m sexy, don’t you?”

Yes.

I throw my hands up. “I walked straight into this.”

“You did,” he says, taking a step toward me. “But I appreciate it.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” I say, aiming for disapproval but failing miserably.

“Only when I’m right.”

His hand lifts, thumb brushing a streak of flour from my cheek. The touch is light, but my skin burns beneath it.

“Tell me more about those ghosts in your pants.”

Oh my God.

I notch my chin up. “I never said I have ghosts in my pants.”

“You’re right. What you said was, ‘I wasn’t joking when I said there was a ghost in my vagina.’”

Is that supposed to sound like me? “Please don’t ever quote me again. I was venting to my friend.”

He chuckles. “You were very passionate about there being a ghost.”

“I was not,” I say, mortified. “It’s a running joke I have with Poppy—one you were never supposed to see.”

He leans in just slightly, eyes locked on mine, amused and utterly unbothered. “Well, I did see it. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Stop thinking about my haunted vagina.”

His grin curves slow and smug. “Impossible.”

We’re standing far too close now, a breath apart. The kitchen hums around us, oven ticking quietly behind me, but all I can focus on is him—his nearness, his voice, his scent—citrusy from the lemons and far too sexy.

“I have more questions,” he says. “Does the ghost have a name?”

My mouth opens, closes. “You are not ready for that answer.”

He arches a brow, stepping forward just enough to make my breath hitch. “Try me.”

I don’t know why I tell him—probably because his voice is dipped low, teasing the heat already pooling inside my pussy—or maybe because I’ve already crossed whatever boundaries I had drawn for myself tonight.

“Mavis.”

Luca blinks. “ Mavis ?”

My nod is shaky and embarrassed. “I didn’t name her. She named herself,” I deadpan. “She came to me one night during a particularly bad date and said, ‘Girl, don’t do this. He still lives with his mom and called you bro twice.’”

“You just keep getting better and better.”

“Mavis doesn’t trust easily,” I warn, struggling not to smile. “She’s seen some things.”

He stares at me for a long moment, lips twitching. “I think I’m in love with your ghost.”

I swallow.

Luca leans in again, closer than before, his grin fading into something deeper. His voice drops low, rich with amusement and curiosity and… something else. Something that makes the space between us throb like a pulse.

“What do I have to do to win her over?”

Oh jeez.

Is it hot in here?

My laugh dies halfway in my throat. “I—uh?—”

“Because I’d really like her on my side,” he adds, his hand landing lightly on the counter beside my hip. “If I want to stay in your good graces.”

Everything inside me is too loud—my heartbeat, my breath, my thoughts, Mavis screaming from the void like, LET HIM TRY, YOU THIRSTY BITCH.

His eyes flick to my lips. “I can be honest.”

Oh no.

“And I’m willing to put in the effort,” he adds, voice like velvet wrapping around my spine.

Oh no .

“Effort?” I gulp for air. “How?”

His head shakes slowly. “Nuh uh. I can’t tell you. I have to show you.”

Mavis shrieks. Not quietly. She’s full-on rattling chains and slamming ghost doors in my uterus right now and for the love of God, why do I keep referring to my cooch as a ghost?!

What the hell is happening to me?!

“You should know I’m emotionally available,” he deadpans, doing his best to sell me on himself.

Too late.

I’m already sold.

“Oh wow.” My short laugh is nervous. “Irresistible.”

“I should have led with that sooner.”

Luca is all good things .

I raise my hand to his chest, sliding it down slowly. Deliberately.

“Mavis says...”

“Yeah?”

“…If you’re going to flirt with ghosts, you better learn how to exorcise one.”

Luca blinks once.

Hesitates.

Then he laughs—a low, wicked laugh, white teeth sparkling against his tan skin. “That might be the hottest sentence I’ve ever heard.”

Poor thing .

“I have layers,” I say, barely able to keep my voice and hands from trembling. “I have lore.”

His palm comes to rest on my waist, fingers slipping under the hem of my shirt, making contact with my skin.

I shiver.

“Do I get to meet Mavis properly?” he asks, leaning in, lips hovering over my jaw. “Hmm?”

What is he asking?

What is he saying?

Does he mean he wants to… what ?

Touch me?

Taste me?

My thoughts spiral in seventeen directions at once, not a single one of them helpful or appropriate.

His nose brushes the curve of my jaw, and I swear I can feel my bones melt. “I’m just saying…” he murmurs, voice molten. “You should let me kiss her to say hello.”