Page 33 of His Little Angel

He was always first for me.

I want a partner who treats me the same.

Is that really so unrealistic?

You know what?Screw it.

If I want to eat junk and be a vegetable today, I will. I grab my keys, head out, and end up in the supermarket, wanderingthe aisles like a zombie in search of snacks. Then I hear footsteps slow beside me.

Oh God. It’s Luke.

My face instantly heats. He’s the last person I want to run into—especially after Enzo nearly launched him into another dimension outside my apartment door.

I debate hiding behind the cereal shelf like a lunatic, but he’s already seen me.

“Mila?” he says.

“Hey. Hi. Uh… hey.”

Smooth. Fantastic.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I lie with the enthusiasm of a soggy napkin. “Sorry about… the other night. That was—”

“Insane?” he offers.

“Mortifying,” I correct.

He laughs under his breath.

“Anyway, I’m really, really sorry. That shouldn’t have happened,” I mumble.

“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a beat of comfortable silence before he says, “Listen… if that guy isn’t actually your boyfriend, and if you’re not secretly engaged or in some mafia-type contract—”

I snort. “I promise I’m not.”

“Good. Because I wanted to ask for your number last time. Before Terminator came charging in. Can I have it?”

I hesitate. But truly, what’s the harm? I need to get out of my own head.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He takes my phone, enters his number, calls himself, and hands it back with a small smile.

“I want to take you out,” he says. “Tonight, if you’re up for it.”

I deserve to feel alive again. I need drinks, laughter, and nice company—maybe even get laid.

“Yeah,” I say. “Tonight works.”

Back at my apartment, I kick off my shoes and shrug out of my jacket, tossing it on the couch. I take a moment for myself, put on music—something a little sultry—and sing badly into a hairbrush.

I find my nail polish and paint my nails red, a color I’ve never worn before. I sit cross-legged on the floor, humming along, my hair falling in messy waves around my shoulders.

By late afternoon, I decide to actually get dressed. I pick out jeans and a simple top, but my hands hover over the drawer. I haven’t touched my lingerie in months.