Page 22 of Spotlight Hearts

He’s staring out his window now, elbow propped on the armrest, chin in his hand. He’s not wearing the typical makeup he does for our shows. His face looks softer without it—still unfairly handsome, but more human. The platinum blond hair is mussed from running his fingers through it during dinner, a few strands falling into his eyes. His lips are bare, just their natural pink, no deep stain to make them look kissed or bitten. He looks tired. Almost vulnerable.

I hate that I notice. Hate that it makes something twist in my chest.

The SUV slows at the private entrance to the hotel—back alley, no valet, no paps. Harry made sure of that. No cameras waiting to catch the “goodnight kiss” or whatever bullshit they’d spin. Just the quiet click of the door locks disengaging.

Luca unbuckles first. He doesn’t look at me.

“Fun night, Jung,” he says, voice low and mocking, the sarcasm so thick it’s almost lazy. “You’re a natural at faking it. Almost had me convinced you didn’t hate every second my hand was on you.”

He pops the door open, cool night air rushing in. One foot already on the pavement.

I open my mouth—ready to fire back something sharp, something safe—but the words stick. Because he’s right. I didn’t hate it. Not even close. And the worst part is I’m pretty sure he knows it, or at least suspects. There was something in the way he held my gaze for an extra beat when his palm settled on my lower back. Or the way his thumb brushed once—feeling knowing—before he urged me into the SUV.

He pauses halfway out, one hand on the doorframe, and glances back over his shoulder. His eyes catch the interior light—shadowed with something I can’t quite read.

“Next time,” he says, quieter now, almost as if he’s talking to himself more than me, “maybe try not looking so surprised when I touch you. Ruins the illusion.”

Then he’s gone—door shutting with a soft thud, long strides carrying him toward the service entrance without a backward glance. The SUV rocks slightly as he disappears inside.

I sit there for a second longer, breath shallow, heart thudding too hard against my ribs. The driver doesn’t move. He’s waiting for me to get out so he can leave.

I unbuckle slowly. Push the door open. Step out into the cool air.

Luca’s already inside. Gone.

I stand there alone in the alley, hands shoved in my pockets, staring at the spot where he vanished.

The snark was armor. The shutdown earlier at dinner was armor. I know him well enough to read that. But tonight—his hand on my back, his whisper in my ear, the way his body leaned into mine just enough to sell the fantasy—none of that felt fake or pretend.

EIGHT

LUCA

My phone buzzes once, twice, then doesn’t stop.

I groan, roll over, and shove my face deeper into the pillow. The sheets are twisted around my legs, hotel AC blasting cold air across my bare back. Last night’s dinner replays in fragments: Kai’s lower back warm under my palm, the way his breath hitched when I leaned in to whisper, the flashes catching us like we were actually something. I’d been half-hard the whole ride back, telling myself it was just adrenaline or faking it. Not him. Or the feel of his warmth through his shirt.

The buzzing turns into a full-on vibration marathon. I crack one eye open. The screen lights up the dim room: Whitney. Texts stacking.

Saw the pics.

You and him. Your fucking hand on his back??

Luca wtf

Call me. NOW.

I drag the blanket over my head, blocking out the light and the guilt. Maybe if I stay under here long enough, the world will forget I exist for five minutes. Or at least Whitney will.

The phone starts ringing—FaceTime I’m sure. The ringtone cuts through the blanket like a knife.

I curse under my breath, throw the covers off, and snatch the phone before it wakes Michael in the next bed. Her face fills the screen before I can even sit up properly—blonde hair messy from sleep, eyes red-rimmed from her tears, and mouth already releasing angry and hurt words.

“You’re kidding me, right?” she says the second the call connects. “Those pictures are everywhere. TMZ has a whole article. ‘Luca Clark and Kai Jung: From Stage Sparks to Real Romance?’ You’ve got your hand on his fucking back like you’re guiding your boyfriend home after date night.”

I rub my face with my free hand, sitting up against the headboard. “Whit, it’s⁠—”

“Don’t ‘Whit’ me. It looks real. Like, really real. The way you’re looking at him? The smile? You laughed at something he said through the window. I saw the video clip. You don’t laugh like that with me anymore.”