Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(78)

“You’re not—”

“Oh, believe me, I really, really am.”

Right.

Because he thought asking me to play his girlfriend would be easy, when there’s nothing easy about me.

I shift on the seat and start to pull myself up. “I’ll get to bed then.”

“Henri—”

His eyes are haunted, and I don’t know what’s bothering me more—that I’m wreaking havoc all over his life, or that he feels responsible for it.

But he shakes his head and holds out a hand. “What else can I get for you? Water? You need more medicine by the bed? Does Dogzilla need pajamas?”

Never in all of my engagements has a man asked me if my cat needs pajamas.

But this man thinks of everything.

And it’s all a sham so that he can teach me how to not fall for the siren’s lure of the kind of love that I need to accept only happens between the pages of a book, while he fends off his grandmother’s curse until he can deal with it properly at the end of baseball season.

He pauses as I grab my pajamas off the bed, like he’s wondering which of us should offer to leave so I can have some privacy.

Awkward has never been more awkward. And I know awkward.

I know so much awkward.

“I’ll go—” I start as he mumbles, “I’ll let you get—”

We both stop and stare at each other.

I thought it would be the best plan ever to ask a man who has no qualms poo-pooing love to teach me how to learn better, but I’ve gone and done the Henri-est thing I could do.

I’ve decided he’s more than pretty hair and a bad attitude about love.

And no matter how many times I tell myself I’m wrong, I still want to be the woman who shows him that he can have love too.

“Bathroom.” My head hurts, but my heart hurts more. “I’m going to shower.”

“Need help?”

The shiver starts in my toes and goes all the way up to my roots, pausing on its way to give extra good tingles to the best parts. “You don’t have to do that,” I whisper.

“I want to.”

“That’s not part of our deal.”

“Fuck the deal. I won’t break you, Henri. The world needs you exactly the way you are. And if that means I need to make sure no other asshole ever breaks your heart again, that’s what I’ll damn well do. Understood?”

My heart stutters out a protest that would be bigger if today hadn’t been the doozy of a day that it’s been. I should argue with him.

He can’t protect me forever, and the implication that he wants to suggests we’re both insane.

But I don’t want to argue.

I want to indulge in the fantasy that is Luca Rossi wanting me.

Not only wanting me, but wanting me on a night when I’ve basically been at my worst. Jealous, sobbing, breaking out in hives, my tongue swelling, my entire body revolting…and he’s still standing there with his eyes dark and hooded, glaring at me like I’ll be the one breaking him if I refuse to let him protect me from myself.

“This isn’t real,” I whisper.

“Fuck real.”

Fuck real.

I can do that.

For one night, at least.

So I hold out a hand to him, and I leave my pajamas on the bed, and I tug him down the hall to the bathroom.

He peels back my light cardigan, wincing as every new bit of rash is exposed. “Does that itch?”

“The lace—”

“I hate this shirt.”

“You liked it a few hours ago.”

“I was an idiot a few hours ago.”

“Luca—”

He skims his fingers along my belly as he tugs at my lacy tank top, and I wordlessly lift my arms so he can pull it off.

And then he stares.

I don’t know if he’s looking at my bare breasts, or the rash all over them, but when he speaks, his voice is low and husky. “You weren’t wearing a bra.”

“It’s built-in. Small miracles. That would’ve itched like a mother.”

His lips quirk in a half-grin, and that little bit of seeing him relax is enough to make my shoulders sag with relief. I didn’t realize how tense I’d gotten. He leans back, lifts an arm to grab his own shirt by the back collar, and pulls it off in one smooth motion, and my tongue swells up and goes dry again.

Not because of the alcohol, or the Benadryl, or for any other reason than that I will never not go tongue-tied watching Luca Rossi strip.

He leans into the tub and twists the faucet handle, then shucks his pants.

Did I say tongue-tied?

I’m whole-existence-tied.

Dogzilla wanders in, and Luca gives the cat a side-eye that makes me laugh for what feels like the first time in decades. “She doesn’t like toys.” I gesture to his hard, thick, proudly-standing-tall length, and heat rushes to my cheeks.

It’s not that I’m a prude.

It’s more that it’s still astonishing to me that a man like him—strong, athletic, attractive, on top of the world—could be turned on by me.

He wasn’t the first time we showered together. And I haven’t seen him look at another woman with the intense, determined, you are mine to take care of look in his hooded green eyes in the entire time I’ve known him.