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4
LILA
“So, will you tell me how you landed your job? Did you have to apply for it?”
We’ve been in this house for three days, and Luca and I already have a routine. He wakes up at five or earlier; I wake up at seven, sometimes nine, if I remember I don’t need to go to work. I come down to find a full breakfast spread—toast, omelet, ham, and freshly brewed coffee—while Luca has nothing but two shots of espresso.
The rest of our day we spend reading—me with books for my master’s degree and him with reports or something someone leaves on the front door. All mysterious and hush-hush.
I’m a good cook, so the responsibility for our meals falls on me, except for breakfast. Well, also, when we’re feeling a bit risky and order take-outs.
Luca leans against the sink, one hand gripping the edge of the counter and the other holding a small ceramic cup. “It’s not like potential clients hold job fairs or something.”
I slam a palm against the table and hang my jaw wide open. “Oh my God. You don’t say? I had no idea. I thought there would be booths, and people would be like, ‘Hey. I need my cheating husband killed. Who can do it for 500?’”
“500 doesn’t even cover the cost of planning or transportation.”
Rolling my eyes, I fork a piece of French toast, dip it into a small bowl of maple syrup—yes, I dip my French toast, sue me—and shove it into my mouth. “It was a joke, Luca. You know, something supposed to make you laugh.”
“Jokes are supposed to be funny, too.”
I fling a packet of sugar in his direction, hitting him square in the chest. “Ha! See! If that was a deadly weapon, you would have died.”
“If that was a deadly weapon, Lila, I would’ve grabbed it the second your brain considered touching it,” he says with a shrug, “and flung it back to you. All in the space of three seconds.”
Despite the nonchalance in his voice, I can’t deny being impressed. “For real?”
“For real.”
“Damn. When did you know you had this ability?”
The question is simple enough, but he gets this thoughtful look on his face and gazes down, considering his answer. “I didn’t. I was picked up for stealing Cheetos and beer. When I left jail, someone was standing outside the precinct.”
“He’s the one who hired you?”
“Yes.”
“The handler? The one who owns this place?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?” Confusion mars his handsome features, and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m usually doing the interrogating, not the other way around. This getting-to-know-you stuff is new to me.”
Despite how light-hearted he says it, I don’t miss the flitting sadness in his eyes—passing so quickly I almost missed it. My heart aches because he may look all tough and strong, but he’s not invincible. He’s not made of stone.
With tentative steps, I walk to him and rest a palm on his cheek, his stubble tickling my skin. “How long has it been since anyone took care of you, Luca?”
“Only Mom did, and she died when I was five.”
The ache in my chest intensifies, and tears well in my eyes. “You never had anyone? Girlfriends? Friends with benefits?”
“After I said yes to my handler, I spent the next five years in training. Then, the missions. And I ate danger for breakfast. It was a hassle to have relationships, even friendly ones. I would only put them in danger.”
“What about me?”
“What about you, Lila?”
