“Back to the last slide.” His gaze flicks to me, sharp and impatient, the faint crease between his brows deepening.
I click, pulse pounding.
“There,” he says, his mouth barely curving—not a smile, more like the ghost of one. “Stop.”
The slide is a modern mansion, concrete, glass, clean lines against a perfect sunset.
“That’s my house,” he says.
Oh. Oh no.
“That’s… seriously?” I mean, yeah, I pulled it off Google like twenty-four hours ago, but what are the odds?
Chad laughs, like this is some quirky anecdote for a networking brunch. “What a coincidence!”
Luca doesn’t laugh. “Don’t use my house for advertising,” he says, voice like ice cracking across a lake.
I should explain. Say it was random. Instead, I smile tightly. Professionally. “So… does that mean we’re working together, Mr. Walker?”
His eyes narrow. Something flickers behind them—something I used to know. Then… that smirk. Thatdamnsmirk. The one that once made me forget how to breathe.
He leans back, still calm, still in control. “Finish your pitch first, Emma,” he says.
The way he says my name sounds nothing like goodbye.
The hallway buzzes with end-of-period chaos: sneakers squeaking on linoleum, lockers slamming, the faint smell of acrylic paint clinging to my clothes mixing with cafeteria pizza wafting down the corridor. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, too cold.
I walk out of art class with a big grin on my face—my teacher just told me I’m going to go far one day.
But after barely three steps, I slam into something solid.
A wall? In the middle of the hallway?
“Watch where the hell you’re going,” growls a tall, massive guy who gives me one quick glance—and somehow manages to look at me with full-on disdain.
“Crap! I’m sorry! I didn’t see you!” I mean, how does onenotsee a walking mountain?
“You’ve got something…” he says, pointing at his nose.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.” I keep walking, trying to remove myself from the collision scene, but he speaks again.
“I’m serious. You don’t want to walk around school with stuff on your face.”
I turn, surprised. That’s… a kind twist coming from someone who just threatened to vaporize me with his eyeballs. “I believe you, but I don’t really care.”
He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. He clearly doesn’t believe me. “You’re a girl. Of course you care. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Umm, okay—first of all, not all girls are the same. Second, why doyoucare if I walk around with paint on my face?”
He glances away like he’s digging through his brain for a valid reason. That’s when I notice his eyes: deep, ridiculous blue—the kind that makes you stare too long. His eyebrows are thick and annoyingly perfect. Would it be weird to ask for a picture? I could borrow my dad’s camera.
“You’re right. I don’t care,” he says, turning on his heel.
As he walks away, I can’t help but stare at his butt. It’s…very round. Is he an athlete? If I put an apple on there, would it fall off? How long would it stay?
“Byeeee!” I sing out behind him, mostly to annoy him—but maybe also to grab his attention one last time.
He glances over his left shoulder, doesn’t say a word, and keeps walking.
