“I’m perfectly fine.” I jerk the watch off of my wrist, close my shaking fist around it. I look at his face—for just a second. Something in me widens, like an aperture; light floods in. Such thick scruff on his face. There’s a scar by his mouth, little crow’s feet by his glass-blue eyes.
My mother’s word—the word is “dreamboat”—flits through my mind, and I feel a stinging shot of panic-rage.
I take off running again, transparent as you please, and now I’m mortified. I’m horrified and sick and desperate, desperate for…I don’t know. I want to outrun him. Every time I look over, his eyes are on me.
“Why are you here, Luca Galante?”
As we both run, his gaze touches the ground. “I don’t know.” Now he pulls ahead of me. He’s running faster. I strain slightly to match his pace.
I can hear him breathing, feel his faint heat. I can smell him. Each time our eyes lock, my pulse surges. I can’t stand to look at his face, so I take in his bare arms: strong, thick wrists, his elegant hands. Who lets him run without a long-sleeved shirt on?
Our eyes catch again. I find his face is somber.
What do you have to say to me now? What the hell are you doing?
I can barely breathe, would never ask those questions. I look at the ground, and suddenly I’m feeling nothing. I should ask about the victory rally. I should tell him there’s a glass of lemonade inked into my skin—in memoriam of unbroken girls.
When we’re near Tavern on the Green, he says, “I’m gonna do something in just a second. Don’t worry—it won’t hurt. Just wanna cover all our bases.”
Chills prickle my forearms, but there’s no time for concern. It happens fast: his hands on my shoulders, throwing me off balance as he spins me, cushioning my fall as my back collides with the trunk of a cold tree. He’s so close I feel his breath as his hand delves beneath my beanie. He makes a gentle fist in my hair.
“Look at me,” he orders. I blink at him. “Slap my face.”
“What?” I’m falling through his pupils.
“I want you to slap me.”
I do—and it’s so hard, his cheek reflects my palm’s shape in bright pink. Luca reels back. He laughs, a hoarse puff of sound, and presses his hand over the mark. Then he turns around and keeps on running.7EliseTwo Weeks Later“Finis!” I clap the folder shut.
Dani’s brown eyes blink a few times. “I…” She makes a pretty “o” with her mouth. “That’s— I just…” She shakes her head slowly, pulling the tie from her silky black hair as she does, so it cascades over her shoulders.
“My thoughts exactly.” I rise from her white couch, toss the folder into her lap, and grab my wine glass from her living room table, sauntering toward her kitchen for a refill.
A couple seconds later, I hear her boots click on the floor behind me. She sets her empty glass on the granite counter beside mine as I work the cork off our half-drained bottle of Gaja Barbaresco.
“For starters, let me just say I feel like a terrible news analyst—because I just realized I didn’t understand much about what D.A.s actually do.”
I turn to her with my mouth open for dramatic effect. “A horrible analyst! What about horrible friend?” I jab my finger at her silky, powder blue blouse, and Dani blinks a few times like a gorgeous doll.
“Mmhmm. Sleeping on the friend job ’cause you’re so wrapped up in screwing what’s-his-face.”
She gives me a guilty grin. “His face is gorgeous and his name is Raul. He’ll be working as a guest producer for the next six weeks, so there’ll be plenty of time for…whatever events might unfold.”
Despite my angst, I can’t help snorting as I picture Dani’s long legs doing just that.
“You’re awful,” I tell her, pouring.
“You’re breaking disclosure laws over weeknight wine. Not that you don’t have a damn-it-all good reason to.” She throws an arm over my shoulder as we walk back into the living area. It’s two stories of tranquility, with a second-floor balcony overlooking the TV/fireplace area and every square foot done in pale tones and fluffy textures. When Dani unveiled the space to Ree and me after her interior designer spruced it up last year, Ree blinked a few times, sputtered, and said it looked like a lovely bird’s nest.
I sink back into the velvet-soft couch, pull a fleece over my legs, and watch as Dani nudges her shoes off and props her heels on the edge of her glass coffee table. She tosses back about a quarter of her wine and scrunches her nose.
“I don’t know what to say. I can’t imagine finding all this out after he approached you in Central Park. Clearly, he’s just…corrupt.”
“Umm, maybe a little. You know, he’s like…a mob boss?”