Page 21 of Spotlight Hearts

He laughs—low, easy, the sound vibrating through the small space. “See? That’s the energy we need tonight. Snarky. Tense. Like we’re barely keeping it together. Fans eat that shit up.”

I clench my jaw. “This is ridiculous. We’re not actors. We’re singers. And you’re the worst possible partner for this.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” he shoots back, repeating the same words as earlier, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—something almost tired. “Trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else, too. But hey, at least the food’s supposed to be good. Silver lining.”

The car slows as we approach the spot downtown—glass walls, string lights on a patio out front, the kind of place that screams “candid celebrity sighting.” Paps are already clustered outside the entrance, cameras ready.

Luca straightens, mask slipping into place. “Showtime. Try to pretend you might like me.”

“Big ask,” I mutter.

The door opens. Flashes hit like gunfire. Luca steps out first, all effortless charm—a wave to the crowd, followed by a quick grin. I follow, forcing my expression neutral. He falls in beside me, close enough that our arms brush as we walk toward the entrance.

Inside, the hostess leads us to a corner table by the window—perfect sightline for the street. We sit. Menus appear. The waiter vanishes.

Luca leans back, scanning the room. “So. What do we talk about on our first fake date? Favorite colors? Childhood trauma?”

I roll my eyes. “How about we just order and get this over with.”

He chuckles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Come on. Give me something. Pretend I’m not the guy who makes you late to everything.”

“You do make me late to everything.”

“Not today.” He meets my gaze across the table—direct, almost serious. “I showed up early. On my own. No excuses.”

I scoff. “One time. Don’t expect a medal.”

“It was the second time, thank you.” He shrugs, looking out the window where a couple paps are still lingering. “Doesn’t have to be the last time. I’m trying, you know. To…earn my spot. For real. Not just coast on the name I was born with.”

The words land heavier than I expect. For a second, the snark dies. I see it—the flicker of something raw under the cocky exterior. The guy who hiked alone yesterday morning, who took my dressing-down on the plane without fighting back.

Then I remember every late arrival. Every smirk. Every time he made fame look easy while I clawed for it.

“Right,” I say, voice flat. “Earn your spot. Because showing up late and charming your way through everything is so hard.”

Luca’s expression shutters. The openness vanishes as though it was never there. He leans forward, elbows on the table, smile back in place but colder now. “Yeah. Forget I said anything.”

He flags the waiter over and orders for both of us—steak for him, salmon for me—as if we’ve done this a hundred times. And somehow he knows exactly what I would order for myself. When the food arrives, he laughs at something I say (a dry comment about the lighting being too dim for good photos), loud enough for people at the surrounding tables to look over curiously. Head thrown back, hand covering his mouth like I’m hilarious. The paps eat it up—cameras flashing through the glass.

Dinner drags. Small talk. Safe topics. Every time our knees brush under the table, I jolt as though I’ve been shocked. He doesn’t move away.

When the check comes, he pays—quick and casual. We stand. He rounds the table, falls in step beside me as we head for the exit.

Outside, the flashes are brighter. Luca’s hand settles on my lower back—warm, firm, thumb brushing the dip of my spine through my shirt. It’s scripted. It’s for the cameras. But my skin ignites anyway.

He leans in as we walk toward the waiting car, lips close to my ear, breath hot.

“Smile for the nice photographers, baby,” he whispers, voice velvet and mocking. “Wouldn’t want them to think you hate being touched by me.”

The words are snarky, but I’m sure with the way his head is angled that it makes the perfect shot—intimate, teasing, romantic to anyone watching.

But I feel the edge in them. The shutdown from earlier still lingers.

I force a small, tight smile for the cameras. His hand stays on my back the whole way to the car—possessive, steady, and burning through fabric.

The door closes behind us. The SUV pulls away.

The ride back to the hotel is quieter than the way there—no snark, no barbs, just the low hum of the engine and the city lights streaking past the tinted windows. Luca’s hand is gone from my back the second we’re inside the SUV, but I can still feel the ghost of it—warm, steady pressure right above the waistband of my jeans. My skin prickles like it’s waiting for him to put it back. I stare out the window, heart hammering inside my chest.