Page 18 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Wren

I shouldn’t be this giddy.

And I definitely should not be standing in front of the mirror, admiring the way my lipstick shines on my lips. Or the way I look in this little black dress, my hair actually cooperating today, falling down my back, perfectly straightened.

But I am. I look good, and I know it. Who cares if I’m happy about that fact?

It’s all according to our plan. Meticulously drawn up, designed for maximum efficiency. Exact time and place for dates. Expectations for how we dress and act. Much, I imagine, like Luca’s agreement with his ex-wife.

Tonight, our relationship—which up until now, we’ve been “hiding”—is going public.

And we’re in the perfect place for it. Palm trees, warm air, plenty of people with cameras.

Two hours ago, Luca finished playing against the Los Angeles Kings. It wasn’t the best performance of his career, but it was also a far cry from what happened against the Bruins. In my notebook, I jotted that down as a tiny piece of proof.

Our plan is already working. And we haven’t even gone on the first date yet.

Luca managed to get reservations to some fancy place, despite the short notice.

If it was a real date, I might coo and be impressed with this, but I’m not.

Because I was on the phone with him, writing down what he should say.

Apparently, even though he’s Luca McKenzie, he’s not used to throwing that around to get what he wants. I’m more than happy to throw it around.

For the good of the plan, of course.

Turning one last time in the mirror, I confirm that I’m ready to be snapped up from all angles, then reach into my duffel and spritz on a little bit of expensive perfume I picked up—one of those travel containers that still manages to cost over a hundred dollars.

Most of my money funnels straight into my grandmother’s home costs, but when there’s something left over, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have something nice.

I used to have nice things all the time. Back when the only thing between me and a perfume I wanted was my ability to get it out the door. Or my father’s ability to get a whole pallet of the stuff, going on the wrong truck.

I run into Luca the moment I walk out of my room.

The first thing I notice is his cologne—something different from what he normally wears. Heavier, a little spicier. His normal smell is on the fresh side.

I practically bounce right off his chest, and he reaches out to right me like I might fall without his hands on me. Maybe I would. For some reason, the ability to think clearly leaves me for a moment as I stare at him.

“Are you kidding me?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, but holy fuck, it’s because Luca practically looks like a model.

He’s wearing a form-fitting pair of gray dress pants, which highlight his generous strength. It’s paired with some sort of black, button-less dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up slightly, collar just open enough to see the summit of his chest.

“What?” he asks, glancing first at his watch, then down at his outfit.

And when his eyes land on me, they don’t stop. They start at my face, trail to the tips of my hair, linger on my chest, then travel down the rest of my body like something out of a fucking movie.

“Did you just check me out?” I ask, eyebrows raising as I hike my little purse up to the crook of my elbow.

“You were checking me out, too,” he counters coolly, even as I notice the slight flush in his cheeks—and the way his pupils flare. It’s a closed loop—me watching him makes me react, the flush spreading over my chest, which draws his eyes there again, which makes my nipples hard—

“Christ,” I whisper, turning away. “Don’t we have a reservation to get to?”

Luca laughs from behind me, and I ignore the way the sound travels up the back of my spine.

I ignore the casual flop of his hair, the way he parts it to look like a 90s heart throb.

I ignore how he walks with me from the hotel to the car, his hand lingering on my back for a moment too long as we climb into the backseat.

Once we’re inside, we sit quietly, the backseat filling with the mixing smells of our perfume and cologne.

When I glance at him, I can’t help stifling a laugh.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head to glance at me. Where another man might fiddle with the cuff of his sleeve, Luca holds himself perfectly and totally still. His tic is the absence of one. He shows his nervousness in an unbelievable ability to cope.

“I feel silly,” I admit, clearing my throat and looking down at the purse in my lap. It’s one of those knockoffs you can buy on the street. “Like we’re movie stars or something.”

“Thank god we’re not,” he says right away. “Could you imagine dealing with the paparazzi—I don’t even like saying that word—if you were that famous? It would be hell.”

“Seems like you’re a really private person.”

He looks at me suspiciously. “I guess…?”

“So, you’d probably hate it if someone hired a private investigator to—”

He reaches out, casually, playfully, pinching the inside of my arm in a way that makes me laugh, and also takes my breath away. By the time we’re pulling up outside the restaurant, we’re both laughing and smiling, and I forget.

I forget that the plan was for Luca to get out of the car first, to circle around to get me just in case there were too many of them. It completely evades my head, and I turn, grabbing the handle and stepping out before Luca can reach for me.

“Wren—” he calls, immediately sliding out after me, and at first, I panic.

Then, nothing.

I turn around and offer him a hand, to help him stand up outside of the car, and we look at the great big empty space in front of us.

“Uh,” Luca says, making his little Well, look at that face. “Maybe we should have called the press?”

I can’t help it. I laugh. I laugh until I can’t stand upright, and go to lean against the car, but it’s not there anymore, so Luca has to reach out and keep me from falling on my ass in the street.

There are a couple of other people milling out—thankfully dressed as nicely as we are—and they give us strange glances, but that’s the most attention we’ll be getting tonight, it seems.

“Maybe you’re not actually famous,” I say, practically weeping from laughter. “Fuck, that’s funny. Why did we just think the press would be here?”

“Maybe they’re all back in Milwaukee, crawling through my bushes,” Luca grouses, holding his hand out to me and glancing at his watch again. “Come on—we’re going to miss our reservation.”

Part of me wants to point out that if there’s nobody here to take our picture and announce to the world that we’re together, it doesn’t really make sense to even bother with the reservation.

But, I took the time to shave. And exfoliate. And I’m standing here looking and feeling nice. Besides, Luca’s going to pay for my meal. I know because it’s the kind of person he is, and also because I made sure to include that in my contract.

In not so many words, I specified that the filthy rich person would be footing the bills for these expensive dates.

So, we walk into the restaurant together. It’s exactly what I expected, with a massive, LED-lit fish tank in the foyer and a tuxedoed host greeting us at the door. They lead us to our table, which is tiny—fitting for the tiny little dishes.

I expect Luca—a broad-shouldered and generally large man—to be frustrated at the meal. To complain about the tiny portions and make comments about being hungry when we leave.

But, to my surprise, he makes comments about the taste and texture of each dish. Like we’re at an art gallery, and he’s assessing the food for various elements. It’s like he’s taking an exam at the table, detailing what he notices about each one.

“What?” he finally asks, when I must give him one-too-many incredulous looks.

“Sorry, I just expected a Midwest guy like yourself to complain about the tiny plates,” I say, gesturing at the table, where a tiny little toast with tiny little orange spheres sits. “I thought you might want to go to an Outback after this.”

“Okay,” he says, shaking his head and wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin in a way that should definitely not draw my eye like this. “First of all—I was raised in Colorado. Which you would know, if you’d done any sort of research. Second, I’m much more of a Texas Roadhouse kind of man.”

“Because of the rolls?”

“What rolls?”

“Luca, are you serious?”

“Yes, of course it’s because of the fucking rolls, Wren—”

“And how are we enjoying the appetizer course?”

We both turn to the server, voicing “It’s so good” and “Loving it, thank you” while the server nods and smiles before telling us he’ll bring out the next course.

“Also,” Luca says, returning to the conversation the moment the guy is gone. “Why would I complain about the meal? I looked it up before we came, saw what we’d be served, and made sure to eat something at the hotel.”

My mouth drops open, and incredulous laugh coming out. “You ate at the hotel? Before dropping hundreds of dollars on this?”

“I was going to be hungry,” Luca says, “I just played a whole hockey game!”

“What did you eat?” He looks ashamed for a moment, and I lean forward, prodding at his forearm with my fork, which is definitely not fine dining behavior. “Luca, what did you eat?

“Taco Bell,” he whispers, and I sit back so suddenly in my seat that our approaching server actually looks worried for a moment. I shoot him a sheepish look—I should be more careful with the furniture. Each of these pieces was probably hand-carved in the Himalayas or something like that.

“Wagyu beef,” the server says, delivering two plates, each with a perfect cube of meat and a little dribbling of red sauce around it. “Enjoy.”

He leaves, and Luca picks up his fork, not looking at me. “Don’t tell Coach. In fact, don’t tell anybody—that’s on Rule Six.”

Rule Six in our initially handwritten document, that Luca typed and shared to me last night. Each of us agrees to keep things shared in private, or witnessed in private, just that. Private.

“I won’t tell,” I say, sliding my fork into the meat. “But I have to ask—why even bring me on for strategy if you’re just gonna eat Taco Bell? Pack it up, McKenzie. No way your team is going to the Stanley Cup.”

Luca is chuckling in that quiet way he does, shoulders moving, head shaking, like he can’t believe he gave in. “It’s kind of a…tradition. Used to do it in high school, after wins.”

“With Cal?”

His eyes meet mine. “Sometimes. But mostly, I’d just do it for myself. Love the food, but I know it’s not like, performance fuel. So I decided I could only have it after a win.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, fuck you.”

“Excuse me?” he laughs, eyebrows shooting up. “For what?”

I barely resist the urge to say, For literally anything. For fun.

“Even your, like, bad behavior is disciplined! It’s not like you lost control of yourself and just had to have Taco Bell. You literally plan when to break your diet—I don’t think that even counts as breaking it, then.”

“Are you saying I should be more impulsive?” He delivers this line roughly, his eyes dropping to my lips, and it makes a jolt of adrenaline run through me.

“I’m not saying anything.” I finally put the bite of meat in my mouth, just for something else to focus on other than the way he’s looking at me right now. “I’m—oh, fuck, that’s good—try yours.”

He seems to realize he still has it on his fork too, and after taking the bite, we’re silent for a moment, each gobbling up our little cubes of beef. This time, when the server returns, he’s smug.

“Good?” he prompts, and when we nod eagerly, he collects the plates. “I’ll be back with the next course.”

“I want to ask for that again,” Luca says, looking longingly at the server as he disappears around the corner.

“Do it,” I encourage, leaning back in my chair, “might as well get something out of this night.”