“Will do.”
Once we’re alone, I take in the spread: roasted vegetables, meats, seafood, pasta—way more than I could possibly eat.
“There’s no way I can finish this,” I say, overwhelmed but grinning.
“We’ll take the rest home. No big deal.”
Home.
We don’t live together yet, but for a second, I let myself pretend we do, that wehavea home. That we’re already living the life we dream about waking up to his arms around me, falling asleep with his skin against mine. I can’t wait for that. For all of it.
Luca catches me daydreaming. “What were you thinking just now? You looked so peaceful.”
“I was thinking about our future,” I say carefully, hoping it doesn’t freak him out.
His gaze locks onto mine. Anyone else might think Luca didn’t want to be here, his posture too stiff, his voice a little tight.But I know better. His eyes are soft. He holds himself rigid, so he doesn’t spend the whole night touching me, and his voice sounds strained becausenottouching me is his biggest challenge.
He once told me he feels ashamed sometimes. Scared, even. I asked why, and he said he gets overwhelmed by how much he needs me—how badly he wants to be close, to hold me, to sink into me. He said the feeling is so intense that it terrifies him.
I laughed and told him Igetit that he should never stop touching me. That I need his hands the way I need paint.
“How do you picture our future?” I ask.
“Living together. Happy.” He smiles and lifts a glass. I meet it with mine, and we toast like two complete dorks.
“To a thousand more years,” he says.
“To a thousand more,” I reply, sipping what I now realize is champagne.
We eat, and I ramble about every painting in the room, the techniques, the artists, the history. He doesn’t roll his eyes or fake interest. He listens. He asks questions. He makes me feel like the smartest, most fascinating person in the world.
And honestly? I still can’t believe he chose me.Me.The messy girl who talks too much and always has acrylic paint under her nails. The one with no party clothes—just stained jeans and mismatched socks. The girl who eats like there’s no tomorrow.
After dinner, the server brings the check and our leftovers, neatly packed. Luca takes the bags and laces our fingers together as we head for the door.
“Oh,” he says, stopping suddenly. “Forgot to mention something.”
He tugs me gently down a hallway, and when we turn the corner, my jaw hits the floor.
“The Dalí exhibit opens next week,” he says. “But my parents are friends with the museum owners, so… VIP access.”
“Luca…” My hand flies to my mouth. “Those areDalí’s paintings!”
“I know, little lamb,” he says with a smile. “Want to see them?”
I don’t even answer—I’m already walking toward the first one. I lose track of time staring at each piece, completely entranced, until we arrive atthepainting. The one of the woman at the window.
“Remember what we were talking about when we had our first kiss?” I ask, my eyes still on the canvas.
“Of course,” he replies, eyes fixed on me. “You were talking about this painting. And how Lauren made fun of your copy.”
I laugh. “I was so nervous that day. Dying for you to kiss me. I thought you didn’t even like me.” I finally turn to face him.
His sharp jaw, his blue eyes, the shadow of a beard that’s just started to grow—those thick eyebrows I’ve drawn a thousand times. Everything about him feels like home.
“I didn’t like you,” he says quietly.
And for a second, my stomach drops.
