CHAPTER 4: PRINCE CHARMING
LUCA
Sure, the art show was great, but the view in this club? Much, much better.
I noticed him the moment he walked in. Amidst the crowd of sweating, writhing bodies, he stands out like a lighthouse.
Not because he’s loud or flashy—he’s the opposite of that, really. He does glow, though, with an inner light none of these denizens have.
He lingers by the wall, shoulders stiff, eyes darting around like he’s trying to make sense of where he is.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with regal features softened by something…delicate. His hair is dark blonde, perfectly styled, not a single strand out of place. It makes him look out of place.
I lean against the bar, sipping my drink as I watch him. He looks like he’s entered the wrong universe and doesn’t know how to blend in.
He doesn’t belong here—that’s obvious. Maybe that’s why I can’t look away.
It doesn’t help that he’s handsome as fuck. Pardon my Italian.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I sigh and glance at the screen. Gio. Of course.
I swipe to answer, already bracing myself.
“Dove sei? (Where are you?)” Gio doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. His voice is tight with annoyance.
Honestly, I feel bad for the poor man at this point. I make a mental note to do five good deeds to make up for the bad. Even though it’s not even close.
I swirl the ice in my glass. “Hello to you, too.”
“Luca,” he says, exasperated. “You disappeared. Again. Your mother is going to—”
“I’m fine.” My eyes wander back to the guy by the wall. He’s still there, arms crossed now, his expression a little panicked. “I’m busy.”
“Where. Are. You?”
I grin. “See you soon, amico.”
“Luca—”
I hang up before he can start another lecture and slip the phone back into my pocket. My gaze shifts back to him.
He’s moved a little closer to the bar, and I take that as my cue.
“Not your scene?”
His name is Chris. But with his blonde hair and blue eyes, and despite the baggy hoodie, he looks like he’d be better off answering to Prince Charming.
If I bring another person to my hotel room tonight, Giovanni might literally explode. So I give Chris a fake name—because I’ll probably never see him again.
And by what I believe to be the power of his curiosity, I get him to the bar.
I catch the way he glances at the bottles behind the bar like he’s never seen alcohol before. His lips are pressed together, his jaw tight. It’s cute. Even cuter is his reaction to the couple going at it beside us.
“You’re tense,” I say. “Relax. You’ll have more fun that way.”
He releases a laugh so awkward I even begin to feel bad for him. What kind of life has he lived until now that he’s flustered by almost everything?
I think he’s just going to laugh it off, but surprisingly, he replies, “I’m not sure I know how.”
It must be the whiskey or his ridiculously charming accent because my stomach flips at the vulnerability. What the hell is happening? When did vulnerability become a turn-on?
I mask my internal turmoil with a soft smile. “Stick with me, Chris. I know a thing or two about fun.”
He gives me a small, shy smile, and my stomach flips again.
I don’t know why, but I want to know more about him. What brought him here? Why does he look so lost? And why the fuck do I care?
He’s not like the people I usually hang around—or hook up with. Definitely not like Sonya and Erikson.
There’s something else about him—something untouchable. Or untouched? I’m not sure which.
And it’s not like I want to touch him. Not in that way. Though it wouldn't hurt to see what’s hidden beneath that hoodie…
“Dance with me,” I say before I can stop myself.
Chris almost spits out his drink, and his eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“Dance. You know, that thing people do when they move their bodies to the sound of music?” I grin, leaning closer. He smells like vanilla and old spice—an oddly perfect combination.
“I know what dancing is!” he snaps defensively, and I bite my lip to stop my laughter.
This is really fun.
“I don’t want to dance,” he says after a beat, avoiding my gaze.
“You don’t want to or you don’t know how to?”
“I…I just don’t want to?” Chris stutters, and this time, I can’t help but laugh. “It’s not that hard,” I tease. “You just let the music take over. Unless you’re afraid you’ll embarrass yourself.”
He flushes, a pretty pink rising to his cheeks. I’ve literally never met anyone so adorable.
“I’m not embarrassed,” he says, straightening his shoulders like he’s preparing for battle.
“Good.” I take the glass out of his hand, set it down on the table, and grab his hand before he can change his mind. It’s impossibly soft, cementing my theory that he’s lived quite a sheltered life.
I lead him to the dance floor. The music thumps, vibrating in my chest. I move easily to the beat, watching as Chris just stands there, stiff and awkward. I reach for his hands again, guiding him gently.
“Relax,” I say, my voice low. “No one’s watching.”
His eyes dart around. “You don’t know that.”
“Trust me. You’re not that interesting.” I smirk, and he gives me a half-annoyed, half-amused look.
It’s not true, of course. Chris might be the most interesting person I’ve ever met—certainly the most different. I can’t stop watching him. He’s barely doing anything, yet I feel like I could watch him forever.
“You’re terrible at this,” I say, leaning closer so he can hear me over the music.
“Maybe because someone’s talking too much,” he mutters, his voice dry. Then he turns to look at me.
I don’t expect the rush of heat at how close his face is to mine. Our eyes meet, and neither of us looks away.
It feels like time stops and speeds up at the same time. Prince Charming’s electric blue eyes feel like they’re looking into my soul.
I don’t even realize I’m leaning in until he leans away.
I laugh, letting my hands fall to my sides. “Okay, okay. Do your worst—sorry, best.” I wink.
He moves stiffly at first, his feet barely keeping time with the music. But then something shifts. His shoulders relax just a little. He meets my eyes, and once again, I forget where we are.
“Let me show you my special move,” I brag right before I launch into an embarrassing robot dance that involves a lot of awkward hand movements and hip thrusts.
Chris’s eyes widen, and he bursts into laughter, revealing half dimples on both cheeks. The sound of his laughter, the sight of his stunning face lighting up with mirth, takes my breath away.
Without registering my action, I step closer to him, wanting to feel his warmth again. He doesn’t step back.
I take it a step further by taking his hand, and he lets me.
“You see? Easy peasy.”
For a few moments, all we do is stare at each other. And I probably have a dumbstruck look on my face.
So, I rack my brain for something witty or funny to say. I’m the guy with the jokes. I’m the guy who always has something to say.
What have I become?
Before I can beat myself up even more, a figure near the back of the club catches my attention. A man with a camera, his face partially obscured by shadows, but I recognize him from the art show.
My stomach drops.
I glance back at Chris, who is still lost in the music, unaware of the lens pointed at us.
“Chris,” I say softly, stepping closer. “We might have a problem.”
Amico (Italian)- Friend