Definitely wouldn’t want to be his assistant. How does Lauren survive theNew York Luca?
“Sorry,” Brenda whispers, backing out awkwardly and disappearing.
Luca’s eyes snap to me—stern, unreadable.
Gulp.
He motions toward the chair across from his desk. I sit with a dramatic sigh because passive-aggressive professionalism is my love language.
His office has dream-floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the turquoise canal, palm trees swaying in the breeze, and sleek yachts gliding past. Inside? Minimalist perfection. Glass desk, perfectly aligned notebook, and a single pen. Behind him, an abstract painting of thick black brushstrokes going nowhere and connecting to nothing.
Fitting.
“…as I was saying, the construction deadline is September next year. You've already pushed it twice, and unless the next word out of your mouth is ‘understood,’ I’m not interested.”
Okay. Maybe it’s notthatpeaceful.
Luca drops into his chair. Puts the phone on speaker. “Understood,” says the voice on the other end.
So, he wasn’t talking to himself after all.
“Good. Talk soon, Blake.” He ends the call, leans back, and laces his fingers over the stomach I knowwaytoo well.
“I see you’re still a hell of a negotiator,” I say with a smirk.
“The best.” He clears his throat and sits straighter. “I need to know where you’re at.”
“Right here, in front of you.”
One eyebrow rises. Not amused. “With theproject, Emma. I haven’t heard anything in days.”
Becauseyou disappeared, Luca. Like a coward.
“We’re starting the brand video next week. I already spoke to Brenda. The stylist and production team are coming in. I’d like to show your more human side—you know, since the whole robot thing is out. Maybe something casual? Cooking or?—”
“No. Nothing personal.”
I look up, eyebrows raised. “Luca, it’s literally three seconds. It doesn’t even have to be real. We can fake it. Do you have a pet?”
“You know I don’t.”
Right. Allergic to fur.
“Well, we’ve got a week to figure it out.” I flip to my next page of notes. “Now, about the press ads, we’ve got confirmed space in?—”
“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.
I glance up, startled. But he’s not looking at me. He’s twisting a set of black beaded bracelets around his fingers.
Oh no.No freaking way.
My old bracelets… The ones I gave him in high school. No. That can’t be. I must be imagining things. “I don’t want to talk about that,” I say quietly.
“I do.” Now he’s looking right at me, and it’s not his business face. It’s something else. Something… real. “I shouldn’t have left like that. You didn’t deserve it.”
“Damn right I didn’t. But I’m trying to be professional here, so… can we continue?”
“Of course. Go on.” His chair leans back a fraction, arms folding loosely, eyes locked on me.
