Page 64 of The Slug Crystal
Luca moves closer, his body a shadow beneath the illuminated water. "And yet you're smiling," he points out, his voice lower now that I'm near enough to hear his whisper.
He's right. Despite everything, I am smiling. Something about the absurdity of being fully clothed in a pool at nightwith a handsome man I didn’t know a week ago cuts through the tension I've been carrying.
"You're too serious about this," Luca says, floating close enough that his legs occasionally brush against mine. Water droplets cling to his eyelashes, catching the light. "About Alex, about finding Sarah, about fixing everything."
"Someone has to be," I reply, though the words lack conviction. The water feels heavenly, the weightlessness a relief after days of carrying anxiety like a stone in my chest.
"Maybe," Luca concedes, moving in a slow circle around me like a shark. "Or maybe the best revenge isn't turning him back at all."
I startle at this, turning to follow his movement. "What?"
"Think about it," he continues, his accent thickening as it often does when he's passionate about something. "He hurt you, yes? And now he's a snail. Problem solved." His smile flashes white in the pool's glow. "Meanwhile, you're in Italy with four men who find you fascinating. Who's really winning here?"
I splash water at his face, though there's no real anger behind it. "That's terrible. I can't just leave him like this."
Luca retaliates with a splash of his own, and suddenly we're engaged in a water battle, both laughing, sending waves across the once-placid pool. I hear Jake call something from the bar, but the words are lost in our splashing and laughter.
Eventually, breathless and even more thoroughly soaked, I find myself backed against the pool wall, Luca's arms braced on either side of me. Our playful fight has evolved into something else, the atmosphere charging with a different kind of tension. Water streams down his face, tracing the clean lines of his jaw, dripping from his chin.
"You should laugh more often," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips. "It transforms your entire face."
Before I can respond, he leans in, closing the distancebetween us. His lips meet mine with confident playfulness, tasting of chlorine and limoncello. Luca kisses like he flies, with absolute certainty, with joy in his own skill. His hands find my waist beneath the water, pulling me closer until I'm pressed against the hard planes of his chest.
I respond eagerly, days of tension finding release in the simple physical pleasure of being wanted, being touched. My arms wrap around his neck, fingers tangling in his wet hair. The warm water laps around us, creating a liquid cocoon that feels separate from reality, from consequences, from the mess I've made of my life.
His hands grow bolder, sliding down to my hips, then around to the small of my back, pulling me against him. I gasp into his mouth at the contact, at the evidence of his desire pressed against me through my soaked clothes. His lips trail from my mouth to my jaw, then down to the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, each kiss a spark against my water-cooled skin.
The pleasure is intoxicating, but as his fingers find the hem of my sodden shirt, guilt crashes through me like a cold wave. I pull back abruptly, water sloshing between us. Luca's expression shifts from desire to confusion, his hands stilling on my waist.
"I don't—" I begin, then stop, unsure how to articulate the tangle of emotions inside me. "I don't know what I'm doing." I gesture vaguely toward the bar where Jake and Ben sit, then to Marco at his table. "With any of you."
Understanding dawns in Luca's eyes, his expression softening. He doesn't remove his hands from my waist, but his grip becomes less possessive, more steadying.
"Ah," he says simply. "The complication of choice."
"It's not just that," I admit, my voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of water. "It's Alex, and this whole situation, and how I feel when I'm with each of you, and howguilty that makes me feel, and—" I break off, overwhelmed by the torrent of confusing emotions.
Luca tucks a wet strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture surprisingly tender from someone whose usual mode is confident seduction. "Emma," he says, my name sounding exotic in his accent, "there's a very simple solution that you haven't considered."
"What's that?" I ask, bracing for some flippant response.
Instead, his eyes hold mine with unexpected sincerity. "Just ask," he says. "See what everyone's willing to give. What they're willing to share."
I stare at him, processing his words, the implication behind them. "You can't mean?—"
"Why not?" he challenges gently. "Who makes the rules here but us?"
The concept is so foreign, so beyond anything I've considered, that I can only blink at him, water dripping from my eyelashes. Before I can formulate a response, I push away from the wall, away from Luca, needing space to think.
"I need some time," I say, swimming toward the pool steps. "To think. About everything."
He doesn't try to stop me, doesn't follow. "Take all the time you need," he calls after me, his voice carrying easily across the water. "But remember, life is short, even when you're not a snail."
I climb out of the pool, water streaming from my clothes in rivulets, creating puddles on the stone deck. I feel the others watching me. Without meeting any of their gazes, I gather Alex's terrarium from the lounge chair and head toward the room, leaving wet footprints that evaporate almost as quickly as they appear in the warm night air.
Behind me, I hear Luca's splash as he resumes swimming, as if our encounter was just another pleasant moment in his charmed life. Perhaps for him, it was. But his words followme like a shadow, opening doors in my mind I'm not sure I'm ready to walk through.
I fumble with my key card, my wet fingers slipping against the plastic as I try to align it with the slot. The hallway tilts slightly, whether from the limoncello or the emotional whiplash of my encounter with Luca, I'm not sure. Water drips from my clothes onto the carpet, forming a small dark puddle around my feet. Alex's terrarium is tucked under my arm, the blue snail watching my struggle with what I swear is judgment in his extended antennae. On my fifth attempt, a hand appears beside mine, steadying my wrist.
