Page 73 of Racing Hearts
Had I just made out with Luca in front of all these people?
During the kiss, it didn’t seem so terrible, but now I felt mortified. Luca smiled as he grabbed my hands, pulling them up to his chest.
“Sorry, Lilah, can’t help myself sometimes. As Georgia likes to say,it’s in my nature.” He grinned, pulling my hand to his lips and giving it a kiss.
“You two are too much!” Lilah exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I cannot wait to see how these photos look.”
Mark, who’d been sitting by the photographer the entire time, stood slowly. He had the kind of look people get when they realize they’ve struck gold. His notebook was practically glowing in his hand.
“You know, I came in, trying to see if the chemistry was there between the two of you, you seem like such an odd pairing, but after today, I can really see that this is the real deal. Good luck, you two. I’ll be sure to have several copies sent to your offices.”
Had we actually survived that? I glanced at Luca, and he winked back, a triumphant look in his eyes. Our biggest test and we’d passed with flying colors.
Although the more I thought about, somewhere between the teasing, the champagne, and the camera flashes, I suspected Mark wasn’t the only one buying into this relationship.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Luca
I could tell Georgia had been nervous through most of the shoot. She was very good at learning to work through her anxiety, but I’d learned how to read her. The stiff shoulders. The twitchy hands. The way she bit the inside of her cheek between takes. So I did what I could, kept the banter flowing, slipped in that little whisper about Sunday night just to make her squirm in my arms. She’d relaxed, just slightly, and I filed that away with everything else I’d learned about her lately.
And now, back at my London apartment, all I could think about was how good it felt to be near her when no one else was watching. About how excited I was to get her onto my family’s yacht, itching to have some more private time with her so that I could finish what I started in Monaco.
She mumbled something about needing to change, disappearing down the hall. After I finished my shower, I slipped into my favorite set of sweatpants and a comfortable V-neck, heading back into the kitchen so I could prepare our dinner. Ironically, after her joke in Monza, I’d decided to make her a fancy mac and cheese tonight, a fact I was slightly embarrassed by since she’d told the journalist it was my favorite food.
I was stirring the sauce when she stepped out of the bedroom. And promptly gave me a heart attack.
Black dress. Hair half up, wearing the lightning bolt necklace I’d given her at Monza.
Shit. Did she think we were going out? Did she want to go out?
I cleared my throat and raised an eyebrow. “I know my cooking is pretty good,amore, but I think you might be a little too formal for mac and cheese.” The look on Georgia’s face was priceless. A general mix of shock, relief, then happiness. “I figured after the last two weeks you wouldn’t want to go out to eat. I certainly don’t.”
“So, we aren’t going out?” she clarified in a quiet whisper.
“Nope.” I turned back to the cheese grater, hiding a grin. “Figured you’d be as tired of the cameras as I am.”
“Oh.” She vanished again, only to return with black leggings underneath her dress.
“So, I, uh…” She pointed to her leggings. “I forgot to pack a comfortable shirt. Only packed workout clothes and beach items. Do you mind if I borrow one?”
“Of course,” I said, perhaps a little too excitedly, heading to my room.
Pulling out my deepest purple Hermes shirt, I tried to control my giddy excitement. I felt like a high-school boy whose crush had just asked to borrow his letterman jacket. The idea of seeing her in my shirt stirred something within me, and my chest felt tighter.
A minute later, I handed her the soft purple Hermes polo.
“Really?” she deadpanned. “This is the only shirt you could find? I’m not wearing your team shirt, Luca.”
“I mean, no shirt is always an option.” I winked.
Georgia groaned, but grabbed the shirt anyway and headed to the guest room. When she re-emerged, my polo hanging loosely off one shoulder, her leggings clinging to her legs, I let out an involuntary whistle.
She scoffed, barely hiding a grin. “Absolutely no photos, Rossi.”
“Spoilsport,” I laughed, before pointing to my wine cabinet. “Want to open a bottle?”
She nodded, pouring us each a glass of Tempranillo from my collection. “Thanks for not making us go out to eat. I’m exhausted.” I handed her a piece of grated cheese, which she took happily. “Plus, it’s nice to see I didn’t lie to the journalist today.”
