Page 71 of Can't Always Get What You Want

I shoot him a wide-eyed glare. “Of course it’s my brother! Who else would walk in like he owns the place?” Because he owns the place!

The sound of footsteps patter from the kitchen. Closer.

My tank is halfway up and my heart is about to beat out of my chest.

Pants. “Where are my fucking pants?!”

Luca looks around; spots them crumpled by the end of the bed. He dives, snatches them up, and tosses them to me like we’re in an action movie and have to be on the move.

I start to yank them on so fast I nearly lose my balance, hopping on one foot.

“Why are you just sitting there?” I hiss, throwing my arms up in frantic disbelief. “You’re not being helpful!”

I am straight-up freaking out and it’spainfullyobvious—from the panic in my voice to the way I keep darting around the room like a cornered squirrel.

Luca just blinks at me, hands lifted in surrender. “I found your pants,” he says, as if that absolves him of everything. “That feels pretty helpful!”

He runs his palms down the front of his wrinkled shirt, calmand put-together, but his tousled hair and kiss-swollen lips tell a very different story.

“Relax, okay? It’s going to be fine.” My date pauses. “What’s he doing here, anyway? Does he always drop by unannounced?”

I groan, yanking my hoodie down like it’ll somehow hide the mess that is myentire life.

“Not usually,” I grumble. “He probably texted me and I didn’t respond, then saw I was home on Life360 and got suspicious. So, of course, he would decide to just show up and ‘check on me’ like a nosy little?—”

A new sound echoes from the kitchen. A drawer. Silverware clinking.

Shit. He’s staying.

“I swear, if he stays for dinner…” I mutter, pacing now. “I love him, but I want to kill him right now.”

Luca chuckles under his breath.

“Oh.” I whirl on him. “You think this isfunny?”

“I do. You should see the look on your face.”

I stop.

Inhale.

My heart races, my cheeks are flushed, the buzz of everything we were doing only moments ago lingering on my skin. I should be flustered and furious and focused onnotgetting caught.

But instead, I step toward him.

His smile falters as he watches me with curiosity flickering in his eyes.

“I’m really sorry.” I rise up on my toes and kiss him.

It’s fast but soft, a whisper of a kiss—an apology, a thank you, adon’t move, don’t make a sound, and please still like me after this chaosall wrapped into one breathless second.

His hands catch my hips instinctively, but he doesn’t deepen the kiss, doesn’t pull me in—not this time. He just holds me there, steady, like he knows I’m balancing on the edge of disaster.

When I pull back, he’s looking at me like I’ve flipped some internal switch he didn’t know existed.

“Stay put,” I murmur, brushing my thumb lightly along his jaw. “I’ll get rid of him as fast as I can.”

“Should I be naked when you get back?”

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