“Liar,” he says. “You keep track of everything.”
“Hey, I know this one. Lilith totaled six cars in two years,” I tell him. He’s talking more and asking questions. I love it. His voice makes me feel happy and warm and tingly. So very tingly.
“Why are you counting the Porsche?” Lil asks.
“Why wouldn’t we count the Porsche?” I laugh. Only Lil would think the freaking Porsche wouldn’t count.
“Because that wasn’t one of our cute colorful cars, that was one of Dad’s that we sto… borrowed?—”
“It still counts, Lilith! Andyou‘borrowed’ it, not me. I just got suckered into riding in the passenger seat for like ten minutes.”
“Marco said it was eight minutes.” The smirk on Luca’s face is almost comical.
“Dad told you about that? What else did he tell you about us? None of it’s true, I swear! Except the Porsche thing. But anything else he said is a lie!” Lil declares.
Luca laughs. A real laugh. I think I saw a flash of a dimple.
I melt.
God. Damn. It.
As soon as we walk into the house, Becca offers to make us grilled cheese sandwiches. She loves making us snacks when we get home, and if she catches us making ourselves ramen or corn dogs, she gets mad and swears in French.
And that’s how we learned to swear in French.
“Okay, we have mild cheddar, sharp cheddar, provolone, muenster, pepper jack, havarti, and Swiss,” Becca says, standing in front of the open fridge.
“Mild cheddar, provolone, and muenster for me, please.” It’s a hard choice to make, and I know from experience that, sadly, there is such a thing as too much cheese when you’re trying to melt it between two slices of bread.
“A little of that garlic buffalo sauce on it, sweetie?”
“Putain carrément.” I smile at her. She rolls her eyes at me for not just saying, ‘fuck yeah.’
“Sharp cheddar and pepper jack for me, Becks.” Lil gives her a kiss on the cheek as she walks past her to grab chips from the pantry. “No nasty buffalo sauce.”
Becca chuckles. “And for you, Luca?”
Luca looks like a deer in headlights. “Why are there so many options? Isn’t a grilled cheese just a grilled cheese?”
“No, Luca. Grilled cheeses can be whatever you want them to be. That’s what makes them so wonderful.” Lil says wistfully.
I scoff. “Almost. Some cheeses don’t belong in such a sacred sandwich. Or anywhere.”
“Ari loves all cheeses except for two: havarti and blue cheese,” Lil explains.
“Ugh, don’t even say them. Gross. Nasty. Shouldn’t be in this house. Ever.”
“Just make me one like Ariana’s, please, Becca. The buffalo sauce actually sounds good.”
A few minutes later, our sandwiches sit in front of us. Luca’s watching me cut mine and it makes me self-conscious. I’m aware that the not-quite triangles but not-quite squares I end up with are kind of weird, but no one here ever gives a shit. When I look up at him, he cocks his sexy eyebrow at me and tries to hide a grin behind his glass of water.
“Don’t judge my sandwich, sir.” I point a piece of it at him, then smash some chips into a corner before I take a bite.
“Never.”
I cannot get enough of his voice. It’s not as good as touches, though. I wish he would touch me more. Touch is one of my love languages. But I’m afraid that if he really starts, I won’t want him to ever stop.
I think about him all the time. I dream about him. When he stomps or stalks or prowls by, I can’t help but breathe him in. His body wash is some kind of manly musky woodsy stuff that I want to roll around in. It pairs well with his coffee in the morning and the beer or whiskey he sometimes drinks at night. I can’t help but think it would pair well with me. Every time I get a whiff of him, I get wet. When he talks, and especially when he laughs, I get wet.When he cocks that scarred eyebrow at me… well, basically everything about him makes me wet.
