Her friends laugh. She glares. This is why I hate these parties—everyone thinks I’m going to be charming and social.Wrong.
I open the fridge for a beer and close the door—then nearly drop the bottle.
Emma’s standing there. Her hair looks lighter tonight, pulled back in a crown braid with loose strands framing her face. She’s in a giant white t-shirt and worn-out, ripped jeans.
“Emma…” I say, eyes scanning her like I’m trying to memorize every detail. She could wear a circus tent and still be the most beautiful girl in the room.
“Hey.” She grins.
“W-what are you doing here?”
The music fades. The noise vanishes. All I see is her.
“Oh, my sister came with her friend, and they dragged me along,” she says nonchalantly, arms folded, leaning against thewall like she owns it. She’s so casually magnetic, it drives me insane.
“You… are you having a good time?” I blurt, my brows lifting as soon as the words tumble out. Seriously, dude?
Her lips twitch, like she’s trying to decide whether to smirk or roll her eyes. “Do you want my honesty?”
“Always.” My shoulders square, though my voice comes out lighter than I intend.
“I expected more.” She tilts her head, one brow arched, her gaze sweeping over the crowded room before landing back on me. “Your parties are kind of famous.”
I exhale through my nose, a crooked grin tugging at my mouth as I lean a little closer. “Then I’d better fix that. What do you want to drink?”
Emma snatches the beer from my hand and takes a sip. I swallow hard.
I’m going to die.
Three beers later, we’re still in the same spot, laughing so hard I forget where I am. I don’t want to do anything to break this moment.
“So, what did he say?” I ask between laughs.
“That I should stick to copying art instead of making it,” she bursts out.
We lose it again. Then the music cranks up, too loud. Emma winces.
“I can't hear you!” I shout near her ear. “Wanna go somewhere else?”
She nods, eyes gleaming. “Lead the way!”
I take off toward the stairs, checking behind me every few steps. She’s following, looking around like she’s never seen anything like this place.
I open my door and let her in.
The room’s big—too big for a teenager—but it’s mine. A massive window looks out over the manicured lawn, blinds half-open to the night. Posters of fighters and classic cars cover one wall, clashing with the expensive abstract art my mom insisted on hanging before I claimed the space. The bed is king-sized, perfectly made by the housekeeper every morning, though a pile of hoodies and sneakers in the corner keeps it from looking like a hotel.
Do not stare, Luca. Don’t act like a total psycho. Don’t make her regret stepping into your world.
“Your house feels cold,” she says, hands stuffed in her pockets, eyes scanning the decor.
“What do you mean?”
“The vibe. It’s kind of stiff, very… aristocratic.”
“Yeah, that’s my mom’s doing,” I mutter, setting my beer down—on a coaster, obviously.
Emma wanders to my bookshelf. “Leaders of Tomorrow?”she asks, pointing at the book my dad forced on me.
