Page 29 of Love Loathe Devotion (Tightrope #3)

The little Italian place is tucked into a quiet corner of the village like it doesn’t want to be found.

No signs, no flashing lights—just a plain wooden door, a hanging, vine-covered lantern, and the soft scent of garlic and baked dough drifting out into the night.

The kind of place Nico’s family has probably owned since before half the buildings in this town were upright.

Inside, it’s warm. Familiar. Brick walls, low lighting, a wood-burning oven still glowing at the back. Every table has a bottle of red already breathing on it. And in the far corner, in the booth that always gets held when Nico’s in town, the five of us are crammed in and loud as hell.

Laney’s curled under my arm, her head tucked into my shoulder like it belongs there—and it does. She’s laughing at something Sam said, while Lucas and Sam are bickering across the table like it’s a contact sport.

“I’m just saying,” Sam insists, twirling her fork through her pasta, “nobody keeps emergency condiments in the glove box unless they’re a full-blown psychopath.”

Lucas blinks. “It was one packet of sriracha.”

“One?” Sam scoffs. “I found six. And two soy sauce, a mystery mayo, and a fortune cookie.”

Laney snorts beside me. “A fortune cookie?”

Lucas shrugs. “You never know when the universe is trying to talk to you.”

Nico leans back, sipping his espresso, his expression dry. “If you listen to fortune cookies, I have so many concerns.”

“You’ve had worse ideas,” Lucas fires back.

“True,” Nico admits, and just like that, the table explodes into laughter again.

It’s easy. Comfortable. Home.

We don’t get this often—me and Lucas and Nico all in the same place. Not with everything that pulls us in different directions. But when we do, it’s like no time’s passed at all.

Nico’s got that usual calm, controlled look—three-piece charcoal suit, dark shirt open at the collar, Rolex glinting under the low light. He always looks like he’s walked out of a magazine and possibly also a mafia war council, which… isn’t far off.

He’s guarded, always has been, the kind of man who doesn’t speak unless it matters. But when he does speak, you listen. Especially if you’re one of the few people he lets in.

Which Lucas and I are. Always have been.

“So,” Nico says, his gaze cutting over the table. “The donor event. That’s still on for London?”

Lucas nods, suddenly all business. “Yeah. Week two. Finalizing venue details, but the press is coming together. We’ve got a couple of hospital partners and a radio spot locked.”

Sam adds, “We’ve had a huge jump in pre-registrations for kidney screening. The buzz is picking up.”

Laney beams beside me, glowing with pride. She’s the reason this event even exists. Her work, her heart—it’s in every detail.

Nico tips his glass toward her. “Well done, Laney.”

She blushes, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Thanks. It’s definitely been a group effort.”

Lucas, fork halfway to his mouth, says, “You flying out for it?”

My stomach tightens.

Just like that, the warmth shifts.

I feel Laney still slightly beside me, like she’s waiting for something. And I hate what happens next.

Because the answer should be yes. Hell, I want her there. She deserves to be there.

But that week?

It’s going to be a mess.

That label publicist—the mistake—she’ll be in London, shadowing press, and I can’t bring Laney into that chaos. Into that history. Not when she’s this good. This pure piece of my life that hasn’t been touched by the industry’s worst parts.

So I dodge.

“Still figuring logistics,” I say, too casual. “Lots of moving pieces.”

I don’t look at her when I say it.

But I feel it. The silence. The pause. That subtle withdrawal, like a thread loosening between us.

And then Sam—ever the save-the-moment queen—jumps in.

“Lucas also forgot his passport renewal appointment last week,” she says brightly, tossing her husband a smirk. “So if anyone’s not flying anywhere, it’s him.”

“I was busy,” Lucas protests, gesturing with his wine. “I had to finish the merch designs. Your idea, by the way.”

“And my idea was brilliant.”

“Your idea had glitter, Sam.”

“You loved it.”

Nico mutters, “I’m surrounded by idiots,” but his smirk gives him away, and Laney laughs beside me—too quickly, too brightly—but it’s a laugh.

She’s putting on a brave face.

For me.

And it kills me a little.

I rest my hand on her thigh under the table, squeezing gently. She doesn’t pull away. But she doesn’t lean in either.

I don’t blame her.

And I have no idea how to fix it without exposing all the things I’ve been keeping from her—for her.

And time? It’s almost up.

The restaurant has emptied out around us, chairs turned up on tables, candles flickering low in their pools of wax.

The five of us are still lingering—spread across the back patio under strings of fairy lights and the hum of quiet jazz drifting through the cracked kitchen door.

There’s a soft breeze rolling through the hedges that line the courtyard, and the scent of lemon and old wine lingers in the air.

Nico’s sipping from a short tumbler of amaro, eyes half-lidded but still sharp. Lucas and Sam are sharing a dessert they swear they’re too full to eat, stealing bites off each other’s forks while fake-arguing about who finished the last tiramisu.

And then there’s Laney.

Curled up beside me in the corner of the bench seat, legs tucked under her, hands wrapped around a small glass of limoncello she hasn’t touched.

She’s smiling when Sam jokes. Laughing when Lucas makes a face. She’s doing all the right things.

But I feel the shift.

She’s quiet. A little too quiet. Her smiles don’t reach her eyes, and when I slide my hand to her thigh like I did during dinner, she doesn’t flinch—but she doesn’t lean in either.

It’s small. Subtle.

But I know her now. I know the way she looks when she’s thinking too hard. When she’s trying not to show it.

And it guts me.

Her phone buzzes on the table.

She barely glances at it before silencing the screen and flipping it face down.

A few minutes later, it buzzes again. And again. Still, she doesn’t check it.

The third time, I brush my thumb gently across her knee. “Everything okay?”

She smiles, soft and too quick. “Yeah. Just spam.”

I nod like I believe her. I don’t.

The fourth buzz comes as Nico is asking Lucas something about a venue in Dublin, and I catch the way her fingers tense around the glass.

“Laney,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Answer it.”

She hesitates, then finally picks up the phone and unlocks it. An unknown number flashes across the screen.

Just as she goes to tap it, the call drops.

She sighs and sets it down again, face tight.

I lean in. “That the same number?”

She nods, still avoiding my eyes. “Yeah. Keeps changing, but… same energy.”

“Same person?”

She shrugs, playing it off. “Probably. Doesn’t matter. I’ll block it.”

My jaw tightens. “Is it Randy?”

She doesn’t answer right away. That tells me it is.

“Laney,” I say again, quieter now, “is he bothering you?”

She finally glances up at me, and the expression on her face is a mix of apology and exhaustion. “It’s nothing. He hasn’t said anything. Just calls. Hangs up. I’ll block them.”

Across the table, Nico’s eyes flick to me. Just a glance.

I meet it, and there’s a second—barely a breath—where no words are needed.

Nico gives a single, short nod.

It’s handled.

He doesn’t ask for a name. Doesn’t need to. The look we share says everything.

You want me to find out? I will.

I grip Laney’s hand a little tighter, grounding myself. I kiss her temple, long and slow, and she leans into it, but there’s still a distance between us.

Not physical. Emotional.

Because she felt it at dinner when I didn’t ask her to come to London.

And now she’s not telling me about Randy. Not fully.

Both of us are holding back.

And time is running out.

The car is quiet.

Too quiet.

Laney’s curled against the passenger-side door, legs pulled up, head resting against the window, her hair a soft curtain hiding half her face.

She hasn’t said more than a few words since we left the restaurant, and each minute of silence is pressing heavier against my chest like a slow bruise forming under the skin.

But her hand is in mine.

Laced tight.

Like she doesn’t want to let go even if everything inside her is already pulling away.

I glance over at her again as the headlights cut through the winding road back to my place. The shadows catch the curve of her cheek, the tight line of her jaw. She’s trying to be still, trying to hold it in.

And I hate that I’ve done this to her.

That I’ve given her reasons to doubt.

I squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

Not much.

But enough.

By the time we pull into the driveway, the silence has gone from tense to unbearable.

We get out, her hand still brushing against mine, her pace slow as we head up the steps to the front door. I unlock it, push it open, step aside so she can walk in first.

She hesitates in the entryway like she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself.

I shut the door behind us with a quiet click and run a hand through my hair, jaw tight.

“Okay,” I say finally, voice low but heavy with everything I haven’t been able to say all night. “What’s going on?”

She turns, still in her jacket, arms folded loosely across her stomach like she’s trying to hold herself together. She offers me a smile—soft, small, and completely fake.

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m just tired.”

“Laney.”

“It’s nothing, Eddie,” she says again, firmer this time, like repeating it will make it true.

I step closer, not angry, just aching. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Shut me out.”

She throws her arms up, her voice rising as the mask finally slips. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to be honest with me.”

“I am being honest.”

“Bullshit.”

Her breath catches—hurt flashing in her eyes—but not surprise. Because she knows I’m right.

I take a step forward, softer now. “How many times has he called?”