Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Lately though? I’ve been doing a whole lotta wondering.
“Fiancé,” I said to myself in the mirror last night after Luca had already climbed into bed. “Fee-yon-say.”
I kind of love the sound of it.
Nova Montagalo. Someone’s fiancée.
And no, I don’t think it’s too soon. I think it’s right.
I haven’t said any of this out loud to anyone—not even Poppy. I’m playing it cool. Zero pressure. The cool girlfriend who has no expectations of the future and living in the now.
Such a load of crap.
I think about babies. Vacations. Houses in the suburbs, preferably near my brother and Austin. I think about Luca holding a baby and the dangerous levels of horny that visual unleashes in my brain.
I’m not just in love—I’m in future-tripping love.
THIS SHIT IS SERIOUS!
I am one step away from proposing to him. Seriously.
One step.
I’ve lightly stalked a few jewelers online. Maybe I’ve browsed a few men’s engagement bands. I’ve secretly bookmarked more than a dozen wedding venues in the Houston area on Instagram. IN SECRET.
Lost in thought, I blink up at him like he’s grown a second head when he casually announces from the kitchen:
“It’s Taco Tuesday. I think we should celebrate.”
I glance up from my book to where Luca’s stands in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator.
I lower my book slowly. Narrow my eyes. “You want to celebrate tacos?”
“You don’t?” He scoffs. “We’re out of tomatoes and lettuce—I have to run to the grocery store. Wanna come with?”
Of course I want to come with.
He’s been gone a lot lately because the Baddies made the playoffs and all they do is work out, condition, and practice. Currently, his bicep is wrapped from a maybe tear—he won’t admit it’s serious.
I peel myself off the couch. “Give me two seconds. I’ll throw on jeans.”
I tug on denim, twist my hair into a clip, and slide into my sneakers. When I make it back to the kitchen, Luca’s standing by the counter with his keys in hand, doing this lean that’s almost too casual.
Like he watched a tutorial titled “How to Act Normal When You’re Definitely Up to Something.”
“You good?” I ask slowly.
He straightens, smiling. “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s Taco Tuesday.”
Rightttt...
By the time we pull into the parking lot of the store, he’s humming some off-key pop song and tapping his fingers against the wheel like he’s scoring a film. I raise an eyebrow, but he flashes me a grin and holds up the shopping list on his phone.
“Tomatoes, lettuce, and beans—and anything else that looks sexy,” he says. “Ready?”
“It’s me.” I laugh, following him into the store with a twirl. “I’m sexy.”
I’m still laughing when we grab a cart—he insists on pushing it—and because we’re having a cute, flirty afternoon—I push it along with him. We walk side-by-side and I glance up at him beneath my lashes, admiring his jawline as per usual.
Sigh.
So handsome…
Luca grabs a bag of shredded lettuce and tosses it in the cart like he’s dunking a basketball. “Boom. One item down.”
“We are so efficient.”
“Teamwork makes the tacos work.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not a saying.”
“It is now.”
We pause in front of the tomatoes. He picks one up and turns it like he’s inspecting fine jewelry.
“This one’s firm but not too firm. Has a good shape. Kinda reminds me of your tits.”
I love it when he compliments me.
We keep strolling, bumping hips like we’re drunk on each other—except we’re completely sober and ridiculously obsessed. Obnoxiously into each other.
In front of the limes, he slows to a stop.
Too slow.
I clock the shift in his body. The way his fingers twitch on the cart handle. The weird way he’s staring at me, lips silently moving like he’s rehearsing something in his head.
“What?” I ask, half-laughing. “Are you okay?”
“Nothing. Just wondering if we need limes or not.”
I shrug. “I don’t particularly want any, but if you do—grab a few.”
He gives a jerky nod, then moves to the limes, hand poised above them but not grabbing a single one.
I put my hand on his forearm. “Babe?”
No response.
“Luca? You okay?”
I wave a hand in front of his face.
Nothing.
I lean in to him. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You’re totally being weird.”
He clears his throat and grabs two limes in the most unnatural, robotic motion I’ve ever seen. Like he’s never touched citrus before in his life.
I bite back a grin. “Great. Limes secured. Can we move on?”
He nods mechanically. “Yeah. Tortilla and beans aisle.”
We turn the corner, and he starts walking faster, pushing the cart like he’s on a mission—which, okay, he usually is because no one wants to be in the grocery store longer than necessary but this feels different.
And then—
He stops cold in front of the refried beans.
Bends at the waist, hands on his knees while he reads the labels, scanning our options like he’s picking out a rare bottle of wine and not—you know—the exact same beans we’ve bought when we make tacos or rice bowls.