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luca

“ I thought Gio Montagalo was dating Giselle Aguillard?”

I murmur, elbowing to my friend Karl—I’m here tonight as his plus one cause the idiot has no interest in dating—as we make our way into the banquet room. “Who’s the woman with Gio Montagalo?”

Karl follows my gaze, squinting across the crowd. “What—the blonde?”

Yes the blonde, dipshit!

I can’t take my eyes off her.

Red dress. Red lips. Pouty mouth. Perfect posture.

Looks bored as fuck.

She’s beautiful. Seriously so fucking gorgeous.

“Isn’t he dating Giselle?” I ask, frowning. Do that annoying thing where I tap my friend on the shoulder when he ignores me so he’ll answer my question. “That TikTok influencer or whatever?”

My heart stutters as I glance at her again, willing myself to stop staring like some freak.

One full beat.

Then another.

I am…

She’s so …

I shift my stance, tugging at the collar of my shirt, suddenly aware of how suffocating it feels. The room is cool, but my skin is on fire. My pulse thrums against my throat like it’s trying to get out.

I suck in a breath. Shaky. Shallow. Like I’ve just resurfaced after being underwater too long.

Holy shit.

She’s not just pretty.

She’s spellbinding .

Karl huffs out a laugh. “He was dating her. Past tense. Giselle dumped him right before tonight. Didn’t you hear?”

No. Why would I have heard? I have no idea what the inside gossip is—but someday, I would love to be in the know.

“So, who is she?”

I follow my friend, weaving through the crowd to find our table. “That’s his sister.”

My heart speeds up again, this time from something else: hope. “That’s his sister ?”

“Yeah.” Karl nods his head offhandedly. “But when it comes to Nova, Gio is a massive prick.” He shrugs. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

My heart sinks.

Nova.

I repeat the name quietly on my tongue testing to see if it burns. It doesn’t.

It tastes sweet.

Karl finds our seats at a table two rows back from the main stage, and I take the chair that gives me a clear line of sight to her. Not that I’m trying to be obvious or anything. I sit, subtly angling my body, pretending to listen to the small talk around me while my eyes keep drifting back across the room.

She’s radiant. Effortlessly so.

Nova looks everywhere but directly at the crowd, her focus flicking between her wine glass and her brother, who keeps leaning in to speak to the people at his table.

Agents.

A football Hall of Famer .

I look over again at the same moment her eyes flick across the room—quickly. Indifferently. They land on me.

We lock eyes a second too long.

She looks away.

Then looks back.

My stomach tightens. She saw me. Definitely saw me.

I lean back in my seat, trying to act cool, running a hand through my hair.

Karl nudges me. "Did you hear a single word I said? Gio guards her like Fort Knox."

Yeah, yeah, yeah—I got the memo.

But I’m not thinking about Gio right now.

I’m thinking about her. Nova. With her long legs crossed, her red dress painted on like sin, her fingers tapping the stem of her glass. Every few minutes, she glances again—quick, secretive peeks like she doesn’t want to get caught.

The evening drags in that weird award show way—scripted banter, polite claps, overly dramatic music stings. Karl is deep in conversation with everyone but me, which is good because I’m not contributing anything.

At one point, someone at her table says something that makes her laugh, and I swear to God, I feel it in my chest. It’s not even the sound of it—it’s the way she leans back, exposing her throat. The way her hand moves instinctively to her necklace. The way her eyes catch mine in the aftermath, like she wants to know if I saw it too.

I did. Every second of it.

I want to go over there.

I want to say something…

Anything.

Then.

Another beautiful woman runs up to her, dragging her up, and enveloping her in a hug. Tugs her out onto the dance floor, wine glasses in hand. Her friend spins her in a sloppy circle with too much force and Nova stumbles in her high heels, nearly sloshing red wine all over her dress .

She doesn’t even care.

She throws her arms around the girl’s shoulders, mouthing some exaggerated apology through a fit of giggles.

God, this girl is magic...

Nova Montagalo.

Even her name sounds like trouble.

Nursing my drink, it occurs to me that I don’t have the courage to ask her to dance.

I am a coward.

A patient, needy fucking coward.

The gasp leaves my mouth and causes me to sit up in bed. When I glance around my room, Nugget raises his head, dog tail jingling in the dark.

I shift in bed, one arm thrown over my face, eyes burning from too little sleep and too much spiraling. Haven’t called. Haven’t bothered to look at my phone for missed calls.

The dream of her at the ESPYs—and the memory of her pretending I’m a nobody sits side-by-side in my chest like oil and water—never mixing.

Weighing me down.

Hope and humiliation.

If she wants to let me go, I won’t stop her.