Page 139 of Mine Again
The more I look, the more I see his touch everywhere.
Every corner is carefully considered. There’s no clutter. Nothing is out of place. The cushions are arranged in a way that looks casual but clearly isn’t. Even the throw over the arm of the couch is folded with a quiet purpose.
It has Luca’s energy. Steady. Controlled. Intense beneath the surface.
The space flows easily from the lounge to the dining room to the kitchen. Distinct zones, yet open to one another.
The blessed scent of rich, dark-roast espresso pulls me toward the kitchen like a gentle invitation.
Oh, how can I be angry with this man when he’s already made espresso? Especially since he doesn’t drink coffee himself.
A thin curl of steam rises from a ceramic cup resting on a warmingtray. He must have prepared it while I was in the shower. Beside it, there’s a small jug of milk.
He remembered the way I like it.
The gesture is small, but it roots itself deep in my chest. He didn’t just stock the kitchen; he thought about me, about what I would need, about what would make me feel at home here.
I take a sip and sigh, content. This is the first proper coffee I’ve had in days. As nice as the Waldorf in Vegas was, they didn’t make espresso like an Italian.
Cup in hand, I pass through the living area and spot a half-open door at the end of the hallway. Something about it draws me in.
His office.
I step inside, half expecting to find him there, typing furiously, immersed in whatever secrets he guards. But the room is empty. The wall of monitors is dark. The chair is pushed back. No sound, no glow.
Still, the air carries his presence. Everything here hums with precision and order. The placement of the desk. The sleek angles. The silence. It’s like walking into a mind that never stops calculating.
I’m about to turn and leave when something catches my eye.
A photograph on the wall.
It’s large and framed, placed slightly off-center. Not meant to be the first thing you notice, but impossible to miss once you do.
It’sourphoto.
Our unofficial engagement picture. The one taken on that summer night when we danced barefoot under fairy lights. We were laughing, holding each other like the world belonged to us… like the future was a promise we had already sealed.
It’s my favorite photo of us. I used to keep it beside my bed and stare at it every night, until a few weeks before my eighteenth birthday, when Father came into my room, saw it, and told me to put it away.
We were so happy that night. So sure of what was coming. But a year later, everything had crumbled.
I step away from the picture, suddenly too full of memories. The past suddenly seems to cling to every corner of this house, ghostswrapped in morning sunlight.
I leave the office and keep walking, following a faint hum that gets louder as I near the back of the house. A thick door muffles whatever is behind it, but when I open it, the sound crashes into me.
Music, loud and pulsing.
The room is clearly soundproofed. No wonder I didn’t hear it earlier.
Then I see him… jumping rope in low-slung workout shorts.
Every muscle is on display. His chest rises and falls with the effort. His arms flex with each rotation of the rope. Shoulders, abs, the V-cut of his hips disappearing beneath his shorts…
Madonna mia.
Every inch of his body gleams with sweat. The sunlight pouring through the high windows catches on his skin, turning him golden and slick.
He doesn’t look real. He looks sculpted. Wild. Carved from heat and hunger… or maybe that’s me, burning as I watch him.
