My heart performs gymnastics in my chest.
Even after all this time, my heart still pulls to him.
Quickly, I school my expression into dismissiveness to maintain my distance. “I’m decorating the tree.”
Silence stretches between us. I wish he’d leave. I wish he’d tell me he loved me. God, I’m such a mess.
"So," Luca says finally, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Dom’s recruited you as hostess?"
"I like to help. It’s what families do. The kids enjoy it too.”
His expression flickers at the mention of my children. Something like pain crosses his features before he masks it.
"How are they? Your… the triplets?" He clears his throat.
"Growing too fast."
He smiles, and I notice the small scar bisecting his left eyebrow that wasn't there before Italy.
His face has sharpened, lost the last traces of youth.
His boyish charm was replaced by something harder, more commanding.
He stands differently too, shoulders back, chin raised. Like a man who's stepped into power.
“How’s your father?” I ask, wondering why. I want him to leave.
I shouldn’t be engaging in conversations.
I set the lights aside and open a box of ornaments to keep busy.
"Some days are better than others." He moves toward me.
My breath holds, wondering what he’s planning. The closer he gets, the more charged the air around us becomes.
“Let me help.”
We both reach for the same box, our fingers brush, and electricity shoots up my arm. For one breathless moment, we're connected. His skin is warm against mine.
I jerk back as if burned. "Sorry," I mutter, cradling my hand against my chest.
Luca's expression darkens, hurt flashing across his face before hardening into something colder. "Still can't stand me, I see."
"That's not—" I stop, because what can I say?
That every time we're near each other, I feel like I'm drowning in memories?
That I'm terrified one touch might crumble the protective walls I've built?
"It's fine, Elena." His voice is flat. "Message received. Again."
Something in me cracks. The guilt suddenly feels unbearable. Am I doing the right thing?
"You don't understand," I whisper.
“What’s to understand?” His eyes bore into mine. “You blame me for your father.”
I'm transported back seven years.
