When I look up, I admit it to him. “I’ve been here since before your bus arrived.”
“Carla,” he scolds. Such a reprimanding tone.
I giggle.
His expression softens. He stares at me for a long beat, his eyes brimming with emotion. “I don’t deserve you, cucciola. Ti amo.” I love you.
I suck in a breath, the weight of the moment rushing over me. Luca loves me. He loves me. And yet, haven’t I known that, even felt the same way, for weeks now? His saying the words are a confirmation of what I already know to be true. I smile. “Yo también te quiero.” I love you, too.
He brushes his thumb along my cheek, the movement tender. But when he places his hand on my forehead, he winces. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m so happy you won.”
“I have to get you home and into bed.”
“With you,” I murmur, huddling close again.
Luca wraps me in his arms and rocks me from side to side. “Of course, with me. Always with me.”
“It was sweet of you to spend that much time signing autographs and kneeling down to talk to those kids.”
“They all want to be futbolistas when they grow up,” he chuckles and it reverberates through his chest. “I still remember saying the same dream at eight years old.”
I tilt my neck back again so I can read his expression. My body is simultaneously hot and cold and I know I’m sick, but Luca DiBlanco has never looked as gorgeous as he does in this moment.
Exhausted, with unruly curls and full lips, he grins and I see sunshine.
When he cups my cheek, I press my face into his hold. He brushes my cheekbone, the movement soothing. But when he dips down to kiss me, I turn my head. “You’ll get sick! I’m all…germy. And tomorrow is your parade.”
He laughs, for real, as if my response has been the entertainment of his evening. “I don’t care. We won the Cup. Por favor, dame un beso.” Please give me a kiss.
I turn back toward him, my eyes finding his. He’s happy, fulfilled, and here with me. How did I deserve a man like Luca? How can I be this lucky? Gripping the tops of his shoulders, I push up onto my toes and place the sweetest, most reverent kiss on Luca’s lips.
He smiles against my mouth and threads his fingers through my hair so he can cup the back of my head. Then, he tips my face gently and deepens our kiss.
I sigh, ceding control completely. Luca kisses me passionately, with all the excitement of the night and promise of tomorrow on his lips.
“This is better than winning the Copa del Rey,” he murmurs.
By the time we make it to Luca’s flat, I’m half delirious. My fever is high, my eyes hurt when I blink, and everything in my body feels heavy. Muffled.
Luca carries me from his car into his flat, leaving his fútbol bag in his car. He moves straight to his bedroom, placing me down on the side of his bed. “You need to sleep.”
“So do you,” I slur.
He removes my shawl, damp with sweat, and strips me naked, save for my underwear. Then, he guides my head through one of his big League Valencia T-shirts and snakes my arms through the arm openings. Helping me lie back, he props me up with pillows and draws the sheet up over my body.
“You can’t overheat,” he mutters, half to himself, as he leaves the room. He returns two minutes later with a glass of water and two paracetamol tablets. “Take these.”
I watch him through half-closed eyes but do as he says. He guides my movements, offering support the entire time, and I realize how nice it is to be cared for when you feel like shit. “I hated being sick in Chicago,” I say aloud. “I always had to hole up alone in my apartment and…” I think back to my old life. As much as I loved it, I love this even more. And I never would have thought that possible.
“And?”
“It’s nice to be cared for.”
Luca’s eyes gleam with emotions I can’t place. “I’ll always take care of you, Carla.”
Satisfied that I’ve taken my meds, Luca strips down to his boxer briefs and slips into bed beside me. I curl into him and he brushes my hair away from my face, kissing my forehead and stroking my hair. At some point, I reach for his hand and he laces our fingers together.
