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nova

I ’m too hot.

In fact, I may pass out from this shapewear.

It’s squishing and squeezing me and sucking me in—but also sucking the actual life out of me.

The ESPYs are glamorous on television. In real life, they’re a sea of overdone spray tans, ankle-bleeding stilettos, and conversations that sound like podcasts no one asked for. Everyone’s pretending to know each other. Everyone’s networking. Everyone’s hungry—mostly because nobody’s eaten since breakfast and the only available food is passed around on trays.

I don’t belong here.

And my bladder has decided now is the perfect time to betray me.

“Be right back,” I whisper to my brother, not that he hears me. It’s a miracle he notices I’m still here, wrapped up in some conversation with some dude that’s been kissing his ass all night.

I rise, holding tight to my tiny, impractical clutch and start the long, awkward shuffle toward the lobby restrooms, trying not to make eye contact with anyone important or trip over the hem of my dress and create a scene during the In Memoriam montage.

Shove open the heavy doors .

The lobby is cooler, thank God. The air conditioning actually works out here.

Awww.

Relief.

The hallway is lined with dramatic lighting and velvet ropes, because apparently, even peeing needs a red carpet.

That’s when I see him.

He’s leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something that looks suspiciously non-alcoholic but still makes him look sexy as hell. He’s talking to someone I don’t recognize and laughing at something I probably wouldn’t find funny.

When he glances up and sees me ?

He does a double take. Stops speaking.

Of course he does.

My dress is fire-engine red.

Our eyes meet for maybe half a second. Maybe less.

Long enough for my pulse to spike.

I drop my gaze like it burned me, adjusting the strap of my purse like it needs attention, like he didn’t just look at me like I’d ruined his concentration.

I keep walking.

One foot in front of the other. Smooth. Controlled. Totally unaffected.

Except I can feel him watching me, heat crawling up the back of my neck like it has a destination.

“Hello,” he says politely. “Good evening.”

His voice is low. Calm.

“Good evening,” I echo, sizing him up.

His eyes soften. “Didn’t mean to stop you. Looked like you were on a mission.”

“I am,” I say, tightening my grip on my clutch. “A mission that involves Spanx and the women’s restroom.”

That earns me a smile. Small, amused, and somehow not condescending. “Say no more.”

I nod .

And honestly, I would stop to chat—but I have to pee like a racehorse and if I don’t keep going, I may pee my pants. Lord knows it’s going to take me a full minute to get out of these shapewear contraptions, which are torture.

My heels click against the tile as I disappear into the women’s restroom, the heavy door swinging closed behind me; I let out a breath, gripping the cool edge of the marble counter as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

What the hell was that ?

I lift my gaze and study my reflection.

Cheeks flushed. Eyes wide. Lip gloss intact.

I look startled?

“Get it together. He wasn’t even flirting!” I dab at my skin with a thin rice sheet from my purse, watching through the mirror for anyone who may come out of a bathroom stall.

I’m shiny and slightly sweaty.

Ew.

I chuck the rice sheet into the trash, take one more steadying breath, and march into the toilet stall. Pee.

Struggle to breathe.

Pee more.

Then begin the battle of the dress. It takes a full ninety seconds and two awkward squats to wrestle the fabric back into place.

“Whoever designed this thing must have hated women.” I struggle to pull my dress down and back into place.

“Okay,” I whisper to my reflection. “Act normal.”

And then I pull open the door.

The second I step into the hallway, my eyes snag on the same spot I left him—and yep.

He’s still there.

Leaning against the opposite wall, he’s alone this time. Phone in hand, his thumb seems to be scrolling over the screen as if he were killing time and doesn’t want to return to the ballroom, either.

Our eyes meet again, and for half a second, neither of us moves.

Then he straightens. “Everything go okay? ”

“Uh—yes. Very successful. Thanks for asking,” I say a bit too brightly. Thanks? Was that a stupid thing to say?

Ugh!

“I’m not lurking out here to be a creep.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I needed a breather.”

I nod. “Same.”

Another beat.

And then, like he suddenly realizes something: “I’m Luca, by the way.”

I know. I take his hand—firm grip, warm palm, a little rough—and offer a small, polite nod.

“Nova.”

He clears his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing. “That’s a cool name,” he says, almost as if he gave the comment no thought and just blurted it out.

“Thanks,” I reply, a little breathless. “I was born with it.”

Stupid, stupid, STUPID! What a dumb thing to say!

He chuckles.

“I figured,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant I think it’s beautiful.”

Luca groans, flustered.

He’s flustered.

By me!

That makes two of us.

I let out a soft laugh, and his shoulders relax a little. “So, Luca— who do you play for?”

He pauses, like he’s deciding how honest to be. “Right now?” Shrug. “Technically no one. Draft is in a few months.”

“Ah,” I say, biting back a smile. “So you’re a free agent.”

I swear, he blushes. “For now.”

I nod, impressed, even though I already know all of this information. Gio’s mentioned him when we sat down—always with skepticism in his voice he saves for players with big potential and reputations he hasn’t decided on yet .

“So I’m talking to an unclaimed future pro,” I say, flashing my best smile and fluttering my lashes just enough to mess with him.

Luca looks momentarily stunned. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but then just—doesn’t.

It’s adorable.

So adorable, I blush, feeling it from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair—which is pale blonde at the moment. Which means that I probably look like a tomato.

Kill me.

Luca clears his throat, and it’s the most charmingly awkward sound I’ve ever heard. “Uh. So. Are you enjoying the awards?”

Oh no.

He’s resorted to small talk.

The most beautiful man alive is nervous and asking me if I’m enjoying an awards show like we’re at a middle school dance.

I want to die.

“Not really, if I’m being honest. I’m only here because my brother’s girlfriend dumped him three days ago.”

His eyes go wide. “Who would be crazy enough to dump Gio Montagalo?”

Um. Plenty of people.

I accidentally snort. “He’s not that great a prize, trust me.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re his sister.”

Oh. He did know who I was…

My belly goes warm.

Luca’s lips twitch, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. His mouth opens, probably to tease me, but I beat him to it.

“I know. That was—horrific. Ignore the snort.”

He smiles. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Liar,” I mutter, covering my face for half a second with my hand. “God, that was so loud.”

“I thought it was cute.”

All of it is cute. The blushing, the way he keeps brushing his thumb along the side of his thigh like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands …

“Did you, uh…” I start, then clear my throat. “Did you come here with someone?”

It comes out way more loaded than I meant it to. Immediately, I want to yank the words back.

But Luca just blinks, then shakes his head. “Nope. Just here with a couple guys I went to college with. No plus-one.”

My stomach flips for reasons I refuse to examine.

“Oh,” I say. “Cool.”

The silence stretches just a little too long—long enough for me to feel that familiar panic creeping up my spine. I shift awkwardly, suddenly very aware of every inch of satin clinging to me.

“So…” he says after a second. “Are you planning to stay the whole night?”

That I’m not sure about. “I’m at my brother’s mercy. He bought my dress and paid for the hotel, so…”

“Ahh.” Luca nods, hands stuffed back in the pockets of his expensive suit pants.

“Well,” I say finally, because I can feel myself falling into the moment too fast, too hard. “I should get back.”

He nods, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”

Except neither of us moves.

It’s like…we’re waiting for something more to happen.

I take a small step toward the ballroom, heart pounding now for new reasons: nerves. Attraction. Excitement.

Put one foot in front of the other, toward the ballroom. And just as I’m about to round the corner, his voice catches up to me.

“Hey, Nova?”

I turn. “Yeah?”

He shifts, the weight of his dark eyes settling on me. Appraising. “It was really nice meeting you.”

I shiver. “You too, Luca.”

And this time when I turn to walk away, I go.

But I swear—I feel him watching me until I disappear through the door .

I reach for him in the dark, scooting back until my ass hits his pelvis, his arms automatically going around me. Luca’s nose nuzzles the crook of my neck and inhales, though he’s been fast asleep for hours.

I blink, the hazy fragments of the dream still clinging to me.

The red dress. The velvet ropes. That quiet hallway outside the bathroom.

That first long look.

That nervous smile.

The way he watched me walk away like he’d already fallen in love with me… and now I’m lying here, tangled in his limbs, wondering how the hell we got from those shy, bumbling moments in the hallway to this.

I love him so much .

I did from the second I laid eyes on him.

Behind me, Luca stirs.

His grip tightens around my waist, just slightly, like even unconscious he doesn’t want to let go. His nose nudges my neck again, slower this time. More intentional. And then I feel it—his lips brush against my shoulder, warm and lazy.

“Why are you awake?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“I was dreaming.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “’Bout what?”

My smile is lazy. Tired. “You. Us.”

“Sounds nice.” He kisses my shoulder, his palm sliding down my stomach and down between my legs.

I breathe in sharply, body already responding to his familiar touch.

“It was,” I whisper, eyes fluttering shut. “We were sweet in it.”

Shy.

Smitten.

He hums again; this time I can feel his small smile against my skin. “I’m sweet in real life.”

I moan softly when his middle and forefinger begin their slow, circular motion over my clit; even half-asleep, he still knows exactly how to undo me.

“Want me to prove it?”

“Mmhmm. Yes, please…” It’s a breath and a whimper, my hips tilting instinctively into his hand. Wanton.

I love him so much…

Love his hands.

His mouth.

It curves against my skin, and I swear I can feel the smug satisfaction in the way he moves—slow, unhurried. He has all night to remind me how well he knows me.