Page 28 of Lucas

Lucas is always teasing like that, mocking the amount of money he has without shoving it in my face. I keep expecting him to try and woo me with diamonds, but he instead uses his wealth in a way that is unexpected and sweet.

It’s nights like this—when a couple thousand bucks guarantees a romantic gesture that feels priceless—that I can’t quite forget he’s a freaking billionaire. Or when I’m sprawled out on his Egyptian cotton sheets, before realizing they probably cost more than I make in a year. Sometimes, it’s all too easy to pretend that he’s just a normal, incredibly hot guy I met at a bar one night—until I’m reminded that he isn’t.

I guess we’re both getting pretty good at make believe.

“You’re having a nice time, right?” he says. It’s cute that he cares enough to ask.

My throat clogs up a little. “This is perfect.”

You’re perfect.

Lucas lets go of my hand and turns around, standing with one hand on the pole and the other stretched out toward me. I follow his lead, tucking my feet into the pegs on either side of the stallion and lean left until our fingers thread together. I extend my other hand outward, and act like we’re flying. My heart soars and takes flight.

“I’m alive,” Lucas shouts.

I shout it back with just as much enthusiasm.

And then we both laugh.

There’s something so thrilling, so powerful, about screaming inside a glass building, while the carousel moves slowly in a circle and New York City revolves around us, like we’re the center of it all.

“God, I used to love these things when I was a kid,” Lucas says. He sits down and dangles his legs on either side of the pony. Her saddle is pink and yellow, with feminine swirls of lace at the ends. She and Lucas are like yin and yang—one a delicate flower, the other a devilishly handsome beast. Where do I fit in?

My mind drifts to his very public childhood, the fatal school shooting that took the lives of his classmates and a beloved teacher, and my heart clenches with unexpected sympathy. How do you crawl back from that kind of tragedy?

“My first story was about a carnival,” I say, shyly. A silly romance, written at the tender age of fourteen after meeting a carnie at the local fair. He actually worked the Gravitron, and although it spun, that ride wasn’t nearly as romantic as this carousel. The worker didn’t look anything like Lucas either.

Lucas quirks an eyebrow. “I’m intrigued.”

I drop my gaze, embarrassed. I’ve never told anyone about that secret manuscript, not even Marnie and Liz. They’ve sifted through the mountain of my unfinished work, but that book—my first—remains locked in a file cabinet, the key carefully hidden. Maybe someday if I get published, I’ll dig it out of the archives.

Not here, though. Not now.

“You’re adorable when you blush,” Lucas says.

My face lights up in a grin.

He slides off the horse and circles around to my stallion, effortlessly shifting me backward and climbing on board so that we’re facing each other, knees, shins, feet connected. He grabs my hips and pulls me even closer.

“Did you write a kissing scene?”

My cheeks burn hot. “Of course.”

“Tell me about it,” he says. His voice is low, throaty. My stomach does a backwards flip. He moves his lips closer to mine, so close I can almost feel the vibration when he add in a whisper, “In detail.”

I blow out a soft breath, expelling my nerves. It’s one thing to read someone else’s words aloud, but to share my own writing feels impossible, too personal and private. My pulse thrums.

“So, there’s this guy, Mark…”

Lucas smiles. “Let’s call him Lucas.”

I swallow hard. “Right, Lucas. Well he um…” I bite my lip. “You see, he’s…”

“Yes?’

My voice catches. “Maybe the scene could still use a little work.”

Lucas’s gaze drops to my lips. His breath is warm, sweet, and I ache for him to kiss me. “Why don’t we write it together?”