Luka finishes his workout at the far end of the gym and saunters over as fresh as a daisy. The fucker’s sweating bullets, but it’s as if exercise has invigorated him.
Maybe I’m allergic to exercise? It’s a genuine concern.
I was never sporty as a kid, although I enjoy swimming. Honestly, I’ve never seen the point of vigorous exercise. I like my curves. If I turned into one of these women who refuse to eat fat and sugar, there’s a real risk my boobs would shrink. Having no boobs would make me sad.
“Cupcake,” Luka tuts, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Do you need resuscitating?”
My lip wobbles. “I need coffee, Luka.”
“Aww, is Kane being mean to you?” Kane rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest.
I nod and sniff pathetically. “So mean.”
“Get the fuck out of here before I make you do another fifty press-ups,” he snaps before stalking over to the weights.
I shriek as Luka throws me over his shoulder and tears out of the gym. “Put me down!” But he just laughs.
In the bright, sunlit kitchen, the bruises on Luka’s face are clear as day. He catches me scowling as he slides a double-shot espresso in front of me.
“I thought you’d like the bad-boy aesthetic,” he grins. Since Dominic isn’t here, we’re eating toast with butter and honey. It’s surprisingly good. I swallow a mouthful and wash it down with coffee, groaning in delight.
“I hate that he hit you,” I admit. “He was bang out of order.”
“Better to hit me than you, cupcake. I can take it.”
“He’d never hit me.” Angelo is a bastard, but he’s not a wife beater. Lorenzo would have no such qualms, though. He strikes me as the sort of man who’d beat his wife senseless for daring to answer back.
Thank fuck I’m not married tohim.
“What about your work? Won’t being bruised affect it?” I chew my lip as he sits across from me and sips his coffee.
“I have a modeling job tomorrow, but honestly, I don’t care. The makeup artist will figure it out.”
“Modeling what?” My imagination conjures up a bevy of lithe models draped over Luka, and it takes serious effort not to growl.
“No idea. It’s for a health brand, so I’ll probably spend ten hours drinking kale smoothies and trying not to gag.”
He grins, but it’s forced. “Do you hate being in front of the camera?” Despite his lifestyle, I get the impression Luka isn’t vain.
“It’s alright. I have no other skills, so I may as well cash in on my looks.” He winks. “At least until I find a rich sugar mommy.”
“Gross.”
He makes it sound like a joke, but I wonder. Is he seriously looking for some rich older woman? It would make sense if he was. A young, sexy guy like him is catnip to older women. I remember looking through his Instagram back when I had a phone. His feed was full of paparazzi shots of him at red carpet events with gorgeous, successful women on his arm.
“I’ll be away for the next few days,” he says conversationally. “Once the shoot ends tomorrow, I’m flying to Paris for a catwalk show.”
“Sounds fun.” Fucking awful, more like. I force a smile before standing and placing my coffee mug in the dishwasher. It’s time to grab a shower before Kane comes to haul my ass to the office for another day of number crunching.
“Chiara, I—” Whatever Luka was about to say gets cut off by my husband’s arrival. He stalks in wearing a charcoal suit and crisp white shirt accessorized with gold cuff links. I spy a glimpse of tattooed skin just below his throat.
My pulse jumps in response, making me choke on the drool that’s pooled in my mouth. Angelo’s a lot of things, but ugly isn’t one of them.
“I thought you’d be ready to leave,” he grumbles while glancing at his obscenely expensive wristwatch.
“Sorry. Kane’s torture session went on for longer than I expected.”
“Did you learn anything useful?”
