Page 28 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Wren

By the time Valentines Day comes, I’m surprised that the press is still interested in us.

It’s not often that I’m wrong about something like this, but my initial impression was. I thought we’d splash onto the covers in response to what happened with Christie Elle and Mandy, then we’d quickly get purged out of the news cycle in less than a week.

Luca is one of the top athletes in the NHL, but it’s not like he’s Tom Brady or LeBron James. I didn’t expect people to care for this long.

But they do. Maybe it’s because of Christie Elle’s involvement, or how she and Mandy seem to be in a real relationship, proven by a series of cutesy photos and vague Insta posts.

When I get on social media and search for our names, I find video after video not just from Frost fan accounts, but from other random people—videos of me watching Luca from the stands. Of him looking up at me, one hand lifted in a silent wave.

Us talking outside the arena. Chatting before getting on the team plane. Walking into work together. His hand on the small of my back, me twirling my hair around a finger while talking to him—when have I ever done that?—and leaning in like I’m just begging for a kiss.

And the weirdest part about all the edits are that most of them don’t even include the purposeful viral moments—the kiss in the alleyway. Hugging outside a game last week. Being seen at the Fine Dining Fair together, hand-in-hand.

Moments when we’re not posing for the camera. Not acting like we’re in love.

My logical brain is putting the pieces together, but I don’t have the mental bandwidth to think about it. When I do, it starts to overwhelm me instantly. It rears up on me with the intensity of an intrusive thought, and I scream at it mentally until it retreats.

“What are we going to do for the big day?” Luca asks, when we’re finishing up a strategy session.

“What big day?”

Luca eyes me. In a completely casual way, I’ve been spending most nights at his place. He seemed to take my nonchalance that day at his parents’ house to heart. And why not? I’m not complaining about being in his bed each night, waking up when he slides out of bed at five promptly.

Ignoring the brief, warm kiss he places to my forehead before going.

Ignoring the fact that it’s not a show for anyone—not even me, if he thinks I’m asleep.

“Valentine’s Day,” Luca says, like that should be obvious. It is. But for some reason, I felt like I should pretend otherwise.

I shrug one shoulder, cool girl style. “Probably nothing—why? Did you think we should?”

Luca goes completely still, pausing in putting his papers into the folder and raising one eyebrow in my direction, a little smirk on the corner of his lips. “Really, Wren?”

My voice comes out a little too high-pitched. “What?”

We stand quietly for a second, staring at one another, and it’s like without saying a word, we’re both aware of this standoff and what it means.

I feel like I have to pretend not to care about Valentines Day—why?

Because it’s lame? Or because any other time I’ve expected something on a holiday, I’ve been disappointed?

Or is it because Luca is not my real boyfriend, and he doesn’t really owe me a date for the day?

At this point, I’m not sure there’s much reason to keep up the charade.

While the press might love our relationship, and people on the internet are making edits of us, it’s not the same kind of attention it was before.

There’s no press outside the arena, or in Luca’s bushes. The buzz around Mandy is consistently low, which means maybe it’s time for us to stage a quiet break-up.

“I’ll pick you up at eight on Saturday,” Luca says now, like he can hear what I’m thinking and doesn’t like it.

I swallow, watching him shake his head, the way his hair falls onto his forehead. It’s getting longer now, shaggier. I have to bite my tongue to keep from crossing the room and running my hands through it.

A few weeks ago, when he mentioned getting a haircut, I mentioned liking it a little longer. And when I saw him the next day, it wasn’t nearly as short as after his last cut.

“Eight in the evening?” I prompt, cheekily, because of course that’s what he means.

He points at me. “Good question—no, eight in the morning.”

Luca is already walking out of the strategy room, and I turn following him, protest already built up in my chest.

“Eight in the morning?” I question, raising an eyebrow at him. “On our first day off in weeks? You’re going to make me get up early? And that’s supposed to be romantic?”

He turns so quickly it surprises me. I step back, bump into the wall, eyes flicking up to his. He’s smiling, but when he drops his gaze to my lips, his jaw ticks like he’s having to hold himself back from kissing me.

The urge rolls through me to step forward myself, tip up my chin, kiss him. But HR made it clear that public displays of affection at work between employees were not welcome and even frowned upon, even if we’d made our “relationship” official with them—signed all their papers and waivers.

“Trust me,” he says, his voice impossibly low as his eyes flick up from my lips and to my eyes. “It will be worth it.”

***

Luca is at my apartment ten minutes early.

“Seriously?” I ask, throwing open the door and working hard to keep glaring at him as I’m sure a little dribble of toothpaste runs down the corner of my mouth. “You are here way too early.”

His eyes go wide as he looks me up and down, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a twinge of self-consciousness. In public, there’s a certain armor protecting me. But right now, with my hair half-finished and only half dressed, I feel vulnerable.

“Oh, this is a treat,” he says.

I let out a frustrated noise and push away from him, spinning and walking back toward the bathroom.

“You know,” he calls after me, “I thought you were the expert at reading people. You should have known I was going to be ten minutes early.”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me, and seven minutes later, I’m walking out of the bedroom again, makeup done, hair finished, tucking in my blouse to my skirt.

“Since you didn’t tell me where we’re going,” I complain, looking up at him while I continue to stuff the shirt. “I didn’t know what to wear.”

He’s sitting in my sparse living room, on the couch that came with the fully furnished apartment. When he looks up at me, takes me in, his face goes a sort of careful blank that I’ve come to recognize—he likes it.

“That should be fine,” Lua says.

If I climbed into his lap right now, I wonder what he might do. I have a feeling perfect, on-time Luca McKenzie might just risk being late if I offered him up a different activity to start the day.

But I’m curious about what he has planned, and even with all my posturing, I’m not sure continuing to hook up is the right move. It’s too close, too personal.

I’m an expert at having meaningless sex. But, so far, none of the sex I’ve had with Luca has felt like that. It’s too good, and I know him too well for things to stay casual.

That night on his couch, I couldn’t stop myself from wrapping my arms around him. Drinking in the moment he came, feeling his body shake and reveling in the fact that I did that to him.

“Wow,” I say, turning to him and raising an eyebrow once we’re out of the apartment. “Pretty confident bringing out the Firebird, huh?”

“It’s not supposed to snow,” he says, stepping in front of me to open my door. “And where we’re going, the roads will be clear.”

“You got really close to referencing Back to the Future.”

“Aren’t you a little young for that movie?”

He closes my door right after he says it, and I have to wait for him to circle around to the driver’s seat and open that door before I can retort, “Didn’t you Google me?”

Luca must realize I’m quoting himself back to him, because he cracks a smile. “I’m twenty-eight. And you’re twenty-six.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I ask, and he gives me a wry smile, and I reach over, punching him on the arm. “You read through my file at work! I can’t believe you did that!”

“Really?” he asks, eyebrows raised exaggeratedly.

I’m already laughing, because I get the point he’s making—the private detective incident I swore I would never forget, but that I already did.

He hired a private detective on me, why should it be a surprise that he might read my work file?

“You really can’t believe I would do that? ”

“Give me the aux,” I say, holding out my palm. “That’s the only thing that will make up for this.”

Luca wrinkles his nose at me and jokes, “Shit, maybe you’re older than I thought. The aux? I put a Bluetooth radio in here a long time ago.”

“Not older,” I say, rolling my eyes and tapping on his screen to find my phone. “Poorer.”

For the first time since he showed up at my place, things get quiet, and I can tell me bringing up our differences in tax brackets isn’t his preferred choice in conversation topic.

I did Google him, and I know those celebrity net worth things aren’t really accurate.

But even that number was staggering to me.

To lighten the mood, I put on my musical theater playlist and lean back in my seat. Then I wail at the top of my lungs to the first song that comes on.

Luca turns the music down and looks over at me, laughing. “You really have no shame, do you?”

“No,” I admit, reaching over his hand for the volume control, not wanting to confront that thought. “What, are you one of those guys who’s masculinity is threatened by musical theater?”

He laughs, “You clearly didn’t spend enough time with my dad if you think that could be true.”

“So, you like musicals?”

To answer, he reaches again for the volume control and turns it back up, coming back in flawlessly for the male singer’s portion. A little flicker of something moves through my heart, and I throw myself into singing too, so I can ignore it as best I can.

Luca is right. I’m the expert on reading people. So why does he keep surprising me? It should have been obvious to me that a man like him would be good at anything, including singing show tunes.

Or maybe I should have drawn on another pattern. The pattern of him fitting against me perfectly. Of course he would know these songs.

We pull into the parking lot ten minutes later, and I can’t stop myself from laughing when we get out.

“A train ride?” I ask him over the top of the Firebird.

He grins at me, running a hand through his golden hair. “A scenic train ride on The Sweetheart Train.”

It’s cheesy. I should focus on that—how completely cliche Luca McKenzie it is. But it’s like I can’t even look at him right now or my chest feels too light. Fuzzy.

So instead, I turn toward the little train station, saying, “Well, let’s hurry up. I’m freezing out here.”

We’re halfway across the parking lot when something tugs at my subconscious, and I see a figure across the lot in a dark coat. Fear and adrenaline zip through me, making my mouth taste like battery acid. But I don’t turn—don’t look.

That man is in the shape of my father. And he’s looking right at me.

“What’s wrong?” Luca asks, and when I feel his arm brushing mine, it breaks the spell. When I finally look, there’s no figure. Just a family climbing out of a minivan together.

“Nothing,” I force out, willing my voice to return to normal. “Nothing—I’m just so excited for The Sweetheart Train.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t quite believe that, but hooks his arm through mine anyway, murmuring for me to be careful on the icy steps as we climb them together.