Ale turns back to me. “Why are you—” He pauses, tilting his head to listen. “I think Marlowe’s sick.”
“Go!” I flick my wrist toward his bedroom. “I’ll finish cleaning and lock up on my way out.”
Ale flashes a quick grin, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Gracias, Carla. How lucky to have you home.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur, scraping food off the plates and loading the dishwasher. I hum to myself, going through the motions of tidying the kitchen.
When I look up, I note Luca stacking Tupperware of leftovers.
“You don’t have to do that,” I mumble.
“I want to,” he replies. “Did you drive here?”
“Walked.”
“I’ll walk you home.”
I pause, leaning against the countertop. “You don’t have to do that either.”
Luca smirks, his dark eyes gleaming. “Want to do that too.” He winks playfully, pulling open the refrigerator door and placing the Tupperware containers inside.
I suck in a breath and shake my head to clear my wayward thoughts. Luca has always been sweet and protective of me, treating me similarly as my own brother. Hell, most of the time, Luca was more indulgent than Alejandro.
But this borders on flirting.
And that’s dangerous.
I bite my bottom lip.
I’ve crushed on Luca DiBlanco all through secondary school. I’ve followed his career just as diligently as I followed my brother’s. I’ve quietly cheered him on for years, watching his life unfold from the sidelines.
And that’s the only place for a crush like mine.
6
Luca
She pulls her coat tighter around her frame as we step out into the cool night air.
Unable to stop myself, I place a hand in the center of her back, leaning closer. “Freddo?”
“I’m fine. It’s just…chillier than I realized.” We fall into step with each other. She studies me from the corner of her eye before tapping my abdomen with the back of her hand. “You worry too much.”
“You sound like Bianca.”
She bites her bottom lip, ducking her head. I note the way her cheeks heat and I want to reach for her. Instead, I shrug it off and we walk in silence for a few minutes. It’s not late and the city streets are still alive with clusters of people congregating on the corners to watch the fallas being constructed.
Above us, decorative lights stretch across the width of the street, adding a festive vibe to the start of March.
“It’s gonna be a long month,” I comment.
Carla snorts and pokes her finger in my side. I squirm, reaching out to grasp her finger.
She laughs. “Don’t tell me you don’t like firecrackers.”
“They’re constant for nearly three weeks.”
“Vale, abuelo,” she jokes, calling me grandpa.
