Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(77)

“Tell ’im ay ’on’t wann bahver ’im,” Henri says to Mackenzie.

“She’s not bothering me. I want to take care of her.”

“Aww, Luca, that’s sweet.” Mackenzie pauses. “But maybe you should’ve shown her that before bringing her to a party where all of the alcoholic snacks weren’t labeled as well as they should’ve been.”

She’s right.

This is my fault.

Henri doesn’t want me because I’m a massive bag of dicks. I’m not one dick. I’m all of the dicks.

“C’mon, Luca.” Brooks claps me on the shoulder and turns me back toward the party. “Let’s get you a big glass of water and round up all the married guys. We’ll get you through this.”

I glance at my phone again, and once more, the ladies have hung up on me.

Henri doesn’t want me.

I’m not what she needs. Not for the kind of life she’s always dreamed for herself, anyway.

And Mackenzie’s right.

It’s my own damn fault.

Question is, where do we go from here?





30





Henri



Because Mackenzie is a goddess, she stays with me in the bathroom through the ugly and the very, very occasionally funny for two hours.

I’ll have a rash for at least a week, but the worst of my reaction has passed.

And no, you don’t want to know what went on in that bathroom.

Let’s just say Mackenzie’s getting a very nice thank-you gift. And either we’re fast friends for life now, or I need to move somewhere deep in the jungle, befriend some local wildlife, and never look another human being in the face again.

The party noises are fading when we finally unlock the door and slip out.

And immediately trip over Luca.

He leaps to his feet and reaches for me, then stops.

I cringe, waiting for him to recoil at the hives all over my cheeks and neck.

Instead, the frown lines on his face deepen, and he oh-so-gently brushes his fingertips over my skin. “Christ, Henri, I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

I shake my head, which is starting to ache, because insta-hangover is a thing.

He sets a hesitant hand on my shoulder, like he’s aware that I’m rashing out all over. “C’mon. Let’s go home. Dogzilla’s probably worried.”

The ride back to his place is different than the ride to the party was, and for the second time tonight, I want to curl up in a ball and cry.

I ruined his night out during his first opportunity to celebrate going to the post-season.

My laptop is toast.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look any of the Lady Fireballs in the eye again because I’m so embarrassed. It’s been a few years since I’ve been to a party, and I didn’t know I was allergic to alcohol the last time I encountered vodka-soaked fruit, but I still should’ve known to be wary tonight.

Luca holds my hand the entire drive, letting go only when he needs to shift the car into gear or then into park when we reach his driveway.

And he’s not merely holding it.

He’s cradling it like it’s an ancient porcelain doll that might break if someone breathes on it wrong.

I don’t want to be something that breaks easily.

I want to be strong. I want to be fearless. I want to experience life and live it to the fullest, even when it means I accidentally have alcohol at a party, because these are the kinds of stories I want to tell my grandkids someday.

But every day that passes—and every wedding that passes—that future of sitting in matching rocking chairs with my one true love on the front porch of our farmhouse overlooking rolling hills while dozens of grandkids frolic in the yard slips further away.

And so do all the memories I wanted to make in the meantime.

Luca crosses around the car and opens my door. “We’re sleeping in Nonna’s room.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s air-conditioned. We’re sleeping in Nonna’s room.”

Once we’re inside, he takes me up to the guest bedroom and makes me sit on the folding chair in the corner. He sets Dogzilla in my lap and won’t let me lift a finger to do anything other than pet my cat while he strips the bed and puts on fresh sheets.

I catch sight of my cardboard Confucius still taped to the window in here, remember my laptop, and start to tear up all over again.

“Your pajamas—Henri? What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”

Luca squats in front of me and takes my chin, making me look at him. He doesn’t have to try hard, because I don’t want to fight him.

“I’m sorry I’m a disaster.”

“The world is a disaster, Henri. Not you. You’re perfect exactly the way you are.”

“Perfectly disastrous. I ruined your night.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, and I feel his sigh in the deepest parts of my very being.

Annoying someone is not an unfamiliar feeling.

But I don’t understand why it hurts more when I annoy him.

“Sorry,” I whisper again.

“Stop apologizing. It’s not your fault.”

“It is. I should’ve asked—”

“I should’ve asked, because I’ve been to parties with all of those people before, and I should’ve known. This is my fault. You shouldn’t be suffering because I’m an idiot.”