When It Falls Apart (The D'Angelos, #1)(32)

“Fine.” Yup . . . the spotlight was on him and he was going down.

“You sure?”

NO! “Yes.”

Brooke started. “Black.”

“White.”

“Pepsi,” she said.

“Coke.” His replay was instant. If this was the game, he was going to win.

“Ocean.”

“Fish.”

“First impression of me?”

Beautiful . . .

“One, two . . .”

“Beautiful.” Luca squeezed his eyes shut. He did not mean to say that out loud.

The car was silent.

He opened his eyes.

Brooke was staring at him, disbelievingly.

She twisted in her seat and stared at the home.

“That wasn’t what you expected me to say.”

“It was a stupid game.”

Suddenly, his concern about admitting his first impression of her felt paltry in how she received his feelings.

“You know you’re beautiful.” She had to know that. Jesus. One look in the mirror every morning and she must look back in admiration, like the queen saying, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall.”

Her silence was killing him. “Brooke?”

She reached for the handle on the door. “I have to pee. My dad is in a wheelchair. Almost always wears a baseball cap. Huge Dodgers fan.”

Before he could say a word, Brooke was out of the car and running away.

And as much as he wanted to run after her, he saw her exit as what it was . . . a personal retreat from his admission and the unwanted feelings it put on her. To avoid complete stalker status, Luca stayed in the car and watched the home for a man wearing blue in a wheelchair looking like he was making a prison break.



Brooke walked into the coffee shop and straight to the bathroom. One look in the mirror and she cringed. Bloodshot swollen eyes, blotchy skin . . . her hair was a mess.

Beautiful.

A screwed-up mess, that’s what she was. Hot mess. Complete train wreck.

Not beautiful. Good lord, when was the last time she felt beautiful?

It had been months.

The holidays. She and Marshall had gone to a small dinner party, and she’d dressed up for the first time in forever.

Now she wore a simple T-shirt, jeans, and plain tennis shoes. A staple outfit that didn’t require thought or work. No coordinating shoes or sweaters. Boring. It said she didn’t care what she looked like or what other people thought of her.

Not beautiful.

Luca was either blind or a better bullshitter than she gave him credit for.

A knock on the restroom door made her move.

Brooke splashed water on her face. A face free of makeup, thank God, or the mascara horror would have been epic. Another simple thing she didn’t bother with, considering the constant up and down of emotions since her move to California.

She exited the bathroom and ignored the dirty looks from the people waiting for the restroom.

She marched back to the car, thankful that Luca had at least stopped the pity party she’d been deeply invested in while watching the home and wondering if her father was going to make an appearance.

Back in the car, she crossed her arms over her chest and refused to look Luca’s way.

“You didn’t grab a coffee?”

Brooke rolled her eyes.

“Every stakeout has coffee.”

She shifted in her seat, stared at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I told you, I—”

“And I’m not beautiful. I’m a damn mess.” She pushed in closer, as if Luca couldn’t see her. “Look at me. Puffy face. My eyes are so bloodshot if a cop pulled me over, he’d ask me what I’ve been smoking. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in months and look at this.” She lifted her hair to reveal her forehead and pointed at a vein she knew was always there. “This pulsating barometer is a testament to my skyrocketing blood pressure that puts the cherry on top of just how unbeautiful I am right now.”

Out of breath, she sat back, swiveled her head to focus on the home.

She heard Luca take a breath. “Okay then. Fine.”

“Fine? What is fine?” What the hell did that mean? She looked at him now, spoiling for a fight. Something, anything, to cut out the misery that had become the hamster wheel of her life.

“You don’t want me to call you beautiful, I won’t call you beautiful.” He looked as if he were holding back a smile.

“Good.” She focused out the windshield.

“What about—”

“Besides, I’m your tenant,” she cut him off.

“You’re my mother’s tenant.”

“Family home. Family business.”

“I was firmly against renting the apartment. My mother oversees your tenancy.”

“Whatever.” Brooke’s stomach was starting to churn. “You don’t think I’m beautiful, you just feel sorry for me.”

Luca started to laugh.

The hair on Brooke’s neck stood up. “What is so funny?”

“You’re rather obsessed with my opinion of your beauty.” Luca sat back now, completely comfortable in the car with one hand resting on the door through the open window.

He was relaxed, confident, and entirely too sexy, and she was pissed that she noticed.