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nova

I t’s just a cup.

You’re going for the cup.

Utterly ridiculous.

“I’m not nervous.” I glance down at my chest. “But why are my tits out?”

On my phone screen, Poppy cackles, her video feed shaking as she nearly drops her phone. “I was about to ask you the same thing. That’s a lot of cleavage for dinner that’s not a date, Nova.”

I huff, turning back to the mirror and adjusting the neckline of my top. Boobs out, girls poppin’.

They’re serving.

“I didn’t do it on purpose.” It just happened .

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t believe me.

“What? I’m serious.”

“Right. You accidentally put on the slinkiest, sexiest shirt in your entire wardrobe and have the girls out to play.”

I scowl at her reflection through the screen. “You think this is sexy?”

Poppy laughs. “ Absolutely. ”

I roll my eyes but can’t stop the corner of my mouth from twitching. She has been my friend for ages, the kind of friend who tells me when my makeup is too heavy and when I’m lying to myself or if my boobs are popping out. I love her for it.

I only wish we lived in the same city.

Last year, she moved across the country for a job she swore was her dream. And it probably is. But selfishly, I hate it. I miss having her within driving distance. I miss our late-night sleepovers because she was too lazy to take the Metrorail home and seeing her on the weekends.

I sigh. “It’s just a shirt.”

Poppy has been my sounding board since we were teenagers, through every bad date, every dumb decision, every heartbreak. She knows me better than most people, which is both a blessing and a curse.

Because she knows when I’m full of shit.

“Uh huh,” she says, humoring me. “And Luca is just a friend. ”

I snap my fingers in her direction. “Exactly.”

She full-on cackles. “It’s precious that you’re in denial.”

“I’m not in denial.” I look down again, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s just a shirt.”

A sexy, low-cut shirt that goes great with my big hoop earrings. High-waisted jeans. Flowing hair.

I went brunette two days ago after being platinum blonde for ages, and honestly? I love it.

Blonde Nova was bright, sun-kissed, a little wild. She had fun, didn’t think too hard about things, made impulsive choices just for the thrill of it.

Brunette Nova? She’s different.

A little more grounded. Mature.

Looking at my reflection now—at the way my dark waves fall over my shoulders, the way my shirt dips just low enough , the way my lipstick is a shade bolder than usual—I wonder if I’m pretending. If I’m trying to convince myself of something that isn’t actually true .

Because if I was really going just for the cup, if this was not a date, then why do I care what I look like?

Poppy, of course, sees right through me. She always does.

“Anyway, how’s work?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. “Are they still treating you like a literal goddess?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

I groan. “Poppy. It’s not a date.”

She gasps dramatically. “Oh. How could I forget that people definitely get this dressed up to retrieve a cup. ”

Of course I’ve told her all about our drinks.

How I wore sweatpants and how it hadn’t seemed to phase Luca one little bit. How he’d looked at me like I could’ve been wearing a trash bag and he still would’ve found me attractive.

How I laid in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling, replaying every little interaction in my head. That despite my best efforts, Luca has been living rent-free in my head for days.

And now, I’m seeing him again.

To “share custody of a cup.”

I reach for the perfume and spray it on my wrists. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing is going to happen.”

“Why? Please don’t push him away.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t even know him.”

Poppy sighs as if she were irritated. “I don’t have to know him. I know you . And I think it’s time to stop pushing men away.”

“Stop it.” I do not push men away.

I just haven’t found one worth keeping around.

“You either get bored, or you find a reason to run,” she reminds me. “It’s like–the second someone gets close, you freak out.”

I cross my arms. “Maybe it’s because I have standards. ”

Poppy snorts. “How many times have you said that out loud?”

A lot.

Way too often .

I slide into a pair of sleek, black heels. “Leave me alone.” I roll my eyes. “We’re friends. ”

Poppy raises a brow. “You don’t do guy friends . Not the kind you think about for days after getting drinks with them. Not the kind you get dressed up for. Not the kind you?—”

I grab my phone off the dresser and wave it in front of the screen before grabbing my cell phone. “Oh, gee— look at the time ! Gotta go!”

“Bye, Starshine. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

How I regret telling her literally everything…

She winks at me.

I groan and hang up before she can say anything else—and as I step toward the door, my phone vibrates.

Luca: Running late. Don’t try to claim full custody while I’m not there.

I snort.

Nova: Wouldn’t dream of it, Ace.

I stare at the screen for a second too long, biting my lip.

Poppy’s voice echoes in my head. You don’t do friends like this.

I do not.

But I also haven’t had a solid relationship in a long, long time. Not one I would shed a tear for. Flings, yes. Friends with bennies? Yes. One-night stands? Of course.

The fact that Luca is forbidden? Does not help my nerves.

If anything, it makes them worse.

Because this isn’t about me. This isn’t just some random guy I could flirt with, kiss, have fun with, and never think twice about.

For one, I have to occasionally see him. Not to mention, the guy is literally plastered on a billboard on the freeway for a deodorant ad and I have to drive past him to go to the mall. He towers over the freeway like some Greek god of freshness and masculinity .

I check my phone again.

Luca: Almost there, Starshine. Try not to miss me too much.

I roll my eyes.

Nova: I was actually hoping you’d cancel.

Luca: Liar.

We’re meeting closer to my apartment—a space my brother bought for me with his first big NHL paycheck. I should be grateful. But it’s a constant reminder. No matter how much I try to be independent, Gio is always a step ahead, making sure I never have to be.

I order a car instead of driving, fidgeting the entire way to the steakhouse.

Adjust my neckline.

Fuss with my purse strap.

Look at my cell—not because I’m waiting for a text—because it gives me something to do with my hands. I fiddle with my social media apps, knee bouncing.

What is wrong with me?!

“I’ve already been out with him, this is stupid,” I mutter, loud enough for the driver to hear, because I thrive on embarrassment apparently.

The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. I give a tight-lipped smile.

“Haha, I’m fine, definitely not having a mild breakdown.” I groan, willing myself to shut up.

Before I can abort this mission and kiss my Rainforest cup good-bye, the driver pulls up to the curb and tells me to have a great night.

I nod, slipping out of the car. Smooth down my shirt. Jeans. Tussle my hair. Adjust the hoops in my ears…

“Stiff spine, Nova. You are a Montagalo.” Chin up .

Chest out.

Ha!

Obviously, Luca is waiting for me by the hostess stand, the dark, moody interior of the restaurant a stark contrast to the kid-friendly café we’d had our first…uh. Meeting.

His eyes find me instantly. Lock. Freeze. Narrow, then widen.

“Whoa,” he says, his voice low and stunned. “Your hair.”

I lift a hand, fingers grazing the soft, wavy strands and give it a fluff.

His mouth curves, slow and suggestive. “You just unlocked a whole new level of gorgeous. This color is working for you. Hard.”

“You like?”

He steps closer, eyes roaming without apology. “If I wasn’t already in trouble with your brother, I’d say something wildly inappropriate right now.”

Aww. Sometimes he says the sweetest things.

“I mean, I was already planning to mercilessly flirt with you tonight. Now it’s going to be borderline illegal.” Luca pauses, eyes lingering in that devastatingly confident way. “I like blondes, but love brunettes.”

Of course he would say that. “You probably say that to all the girls who go from blonde to brunette to avoid an emotional breakdown.”

He only chuckles at me. “Only the stunning ones who would stab me with a salad fork if I mispronounce bruh-scedda.”

“It’s broo-sket-ta,” I deadpan with an Italian flare, lifting an eyebrow—one that has also been dyed brown.

“See?” He holds up both hands, grinning wider. “Sexy and smart. I knew this date was a good idea.”

My eyes lower to his waist, verifying he has our cup in hand—not that I would spin on my heel and leave, but—it makes a great excuse to stay. A little voice in the back of my brain knows this is all a ruse and secretly, deep down inside, this is the only place I want to be .

Luca is wearing dark jeans and a white polo shirt, his dark hair a purposely mess.

His five o’clock shadow is doing wonders for his face and why is his jaw doing that…that thing? Stop it, strong jawline. I am powerless against you.

Lord, have some mercy.

I hang back as he lets the hostess know we’re both here and within moments we’re following her to a quiet table toward the back of the dimly lit restaurant.

As the hostess disappears, Luca raises an eyebrow. “So. Are you going to pretend you didn’t spend your entire car ride over debating whether or not to ghost me?”

“Ghost you?” I narrow my eyes. “Have you been eavesdropping on my conversations?”

“I wish.”

Luca sets our Rainforest cup on the tabletop and it winks at us both, a happy, fun, funny souvenir from out last outing. It’s absurd. And kind of perfect. And I hate how it makes my chest do a weird, fluttering thing.

“Your turn with our love child.” He pats it on the top, where the giraffe’s neck creates the handle.

I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth betray me. I am smiling. Against my will . Stupid charming face. Stupid smirky jawline.

I cradle the cup with mock sincerity. “Don’t worry, buddy. Mommy loves you more.”

Luca places a dramatic hand over his heart. “Wow. Already turning him against me. I’m texting my therapist.”

“You don’t have a therapist.”

He leans back and smiles at me knowingly. “You don’t know that.”

I blink at Luca. “Do you?”

His nod is slow. “Sure. Doesn’t everyone?”

“No,” I say automatically. “But it’s…”

It’s good .

Surprising.

It’s also an attractive trait and I hate that.

I glance at him again, squinting as if I can detect a lie. “You’re serious?”

Luca leans back, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair.

“Yeah. Been going since my second season. Started as damage control after I almost punched a guy on my own team in the locker room. Kept going because as it turns out, bottling things up and pretending you’re made of steel is not cool.”

That shuts me up. I stare at him slack-jawed despite myself and confess: “That might be the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Seriously?” He’s still settled in, leaning back against his chair. “What about you?”

“Yes. I’ve been in therapy since our parents died.” I bite down on my bottom lip. “Sometimes with Gio, sometimes without.”

Luca doesn’t flinch or fill the silence with a joke like most guys would. He just…nods. Like he gets it. Like he knows how heavy that sentence is and isn’t afraid to hold it.

“That makes sense. I would do the same.” His voice is low and intimate. “You two are close. Gio loves hard.”

“I mean—I’m the only family he has. We only have one aunt, and she lives in France, so…” My lips twitch. “Telling me my brother loves hard is the nicest description of him. Usually it’s more like ‘aggressively protective.’”

Luca laughs, but not in a way that breaks the moment. “He did try to check me into the boards during practice the first time I asked about you, so there is that.”

My eyes widen. This is news to me. “He what ?”

“Don’t worry, I bounced.” He grins, watching as the server approaches, laying the white linen napkin on his lap. “It was a subtle jab. Like, if you weren’t watching us closely, you’d think he accidentally skated into me at full speed with murder in his eyes.”

Oh.

My.

Gawd.

“Stop it right now. You should have told me that.”

“Told you what? ‘Hey, I thought you were hot and asked your brother if you were single and instead of being cool about it, he tried to injure me at the rink?” Luca snorts. “That makes him sound psychotic.”

“Indeed it does.”

We order drinks—and a starter to share— and Luca observes me from across the table with a soft expression. “It’s not difficult to overlook through when you’re interested in someone.”

Oh.

Okay.

Wasn’t ready for that.

Definitely should’ve braced myself.

“So Nova. Tell me—what’s the real reason we’re here?” he asks.

“I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean—I thought it was obvious.” My eyes pointedly rest on our yellow and brown spotted cup.

Luca watches me several seconds before his head tilts back and he laughs. “You’re so fucking cute, do you know what? Like you came here for this.” He nods to the cup. “And not to discuss the terms.”

“Discuss the terms?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Terms of what?”

“Us.”

Abort mission.

Do not engage in emotionally vulnerable conversation!

“Us? There is no us.”

“Hmmm.” He rubs his chin. “Isn’t there?”

I thought we were here to flirt over appetizers and share custody of a cup with cartoon animals? I wasn’t planning on this buzzing in my chest when he looks at me like he has a secret.

I wasn’t planning on that little whisper in the back of my brain that’s saying: you like him, Nova. You really, really like him.

Crap.

My heart does a somersault.

I hate it. I love it.

I hate that I love it.

I open my mouth to scoff. To tell him he’s being ridiculous—‘cause that’s what Nova Montagalo does to men.

I dodge. I deflect. I am the damn queen of sarcasm and avoidance!

Luca leans toward me, resting his arms on the table and I literally have to peel my eyes off his muscular forearms.

“You’re right. There is no official us.” He clears his throat. “But I think about you more than I probably should. And when I see your name in my phone, it’s the best part of my day. So, if you want to pretend this isn’t something and there is no us—fine. I’ll play along.”

His gaze meets mine, steady. Warm. Unshakable.

“But I’m not going anywhere.”

Oh.

Ah.

So this is what a heart attack feels like …