He wanted to vomit more than he wanted to admit what he had to. “This is going to sound more stalkerish than it actually is.”
“I doubt it.”
Luca kept his eyes focused on the home and not her. Keenly aware of her eyes on him as he spoke. “I saw you from the terrace. First looking down on you in the parking lot, then closer when you ran out.” He lifted a hand. “You were on the phone yelling. I wanted to tell you I was there but then you were running away.” He placed both hands in the air now. “I don’t know . . . maybe it’s too many women in my life, but you looked pretty upset.”
His silence met with her silence.
The air in the car didn’t move.
“You followed me,” she said without emotion.
“I told you this would sound stalkerish.”
She twisted in her seat, looked out the back window. “I’ve been sitting here for almost an hour.”
“I thought it was only thirty minutes.”
“An hour, Luca.”
Damn it to hell . . . it sounded worse coming from her lips. “I know. I thought . . . maybe you needed to use the bathroom or were hungry. We could take turns watching the home. What are we watching for exactly?”
“My dad.”
Okay, it was her father. “Good. Okay.”
“Luca?”
“Yeah?”
“This is crazy.”
He turned to look at her. “Crazier than sitting across the street watching an old folks’ home for a man, who I have to assume belongs there, to somehow emerge and do what exactly?”
Brooke snapped her lips shut, nose flared as she sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “It’s a home, not a prison. He can leave if he wants to.”
Luca nodded a few times, considered her words. “Does your dad have a car?”
“We’re sitting in it.”
“You’re driving your dad’s car?”
“That sounds like an accusation,” she shot at him.
“It was a statement.”
“It was a question . . . one with accusing tones.”
Luca closed his eyes. “I don’t have accusing tones.”
Brooke blew out an exaggerated breath. “Oh, please . . . your tones have accusation all over them.”
“They do not,” he defended himself.
“Accusation. Condemnation. All kinds of ‘ations.’ You’re as judgy as they come.”
She hardly knew him to have come up with such an opinion. Her assessment meant nothing and yet . . . “That’s not true.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” he said.
She twisted now, no longer looking across the street. All her focus and words . . . anger and emotion were squarely on him. And Luca felt as if he were in an interrogation room about to be cornered into a confession for a crime he didn’t commit.
“I ask a question and you say the first words that come to your mind. If you hesitate, I’ll know the words were judgy and this argument is over.”
“Fine.” Yup . . . the spotlight was on him and he was going down.
“You sure?”
NO! “Yes.”
Brooke started. “Black.”
“White.”
“Pepsi,” she said.
“Coke.” His replay was instant. If this was the game, he was going to win.
“Ocean.”
“Fish.”
“First impression of me?”
Beautiful . . .
“One, two . . .”
“Beautiful.” Luca squeezed his eyes shut. He did not mean to say that out loud.
The car was silent.
He opened his eyes.
Brooke was staring at him, disbelievingly.
She twisted in her seat and stared at the home.
“That wasn’t what you expected me to say.”
“It was a stupid game.”
Suddenly, his concern about admitting his first impression of her felt paltry in how she received his feelings.
“You know you’re beautiful.” She had to know that. Jesus. One look in the mirror every morning and she must look back in admiration, like the queen saying, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall.”
Her silence was killing him. “Brooke?”
She reached for the handle on the door. “I have to pee. My dad is in a wheelchair. Almost always wears a baseball cap. Huge Dodgers fan.”
Before he could say a word, Brooke was out of the car and running away.
And as much as he wanted to run after her, he saw her exit as what it was . . . a personal retreat from his admission and the unwanted feelings it put on her. To avoid complete stalker status, Luca stayed in the car and watched the home for a man wearing blue in a wheelchair looking like he was making a prison break.
Brooke walked into the coffee shop and straight to the bathroom. One look in the mirror and she cringed. Bloodshot swollen eyes, blotchy skin . . . her hair was a mess.
Beautiful.
A screwed-up mess, that’s what she was. Hot mess. Complete train wreck.
Not beautiful. Good lord, when was the last time she felt beautiful?
It had been months.
The holidays. She and Marshall had gone to a small dinner party, and she’d dressed up for the first time in forever.
Now she wore a simple T-shirt, jeans, and plain tennis shoes. A staple outfit that didn’t require thought or work. No coordinating shoes or sweaters. Boring. It said she didn’t care what she looked like or what other people thought of her.
Not beautiful.
Luca was either blind or a better bullshitter than she gave him credit for.
A knock on the restroom door made her move.
Brooke splashed water on her face. A face free of makeup, thank God, or the mascara horror would have been epic. Another simple thing she didn’t bother with, considering the constant up and down of emotions since her move to California.
She exited the bathroom and ignored the dirty looks from the people waiting for the restroom.
She marched back to the car, thankful that Luca had at least stopped the pity party she’d been deeply invested in while watching the home and wondering if her father was going to make an appearance.
Back in the car, she crossed her arms over her chest and refused to look Luca’s way.
“You didn’t grab a coffee?”
Brooke rolled her eyes.
“Every stakeout has coffee.”
She shifted in her seat, stared at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I told you, I—”
“And I’m not beautiful. I’m a damn mess.” She pushed in closer, as if Luca couldn’t see her. “Look at me. Puffy face. My eyes are so bloodshot if a cop pulled me over, he’d ask me what I’ve been smoking. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in months and look at this.” She lifted her hair to reveal her forehead and pointed at a vein she knew was always there. “This pulsating barometer is a testament to my skyrocketing blood pressure that puts the cherry on top of just how unbeautiful I am right now.”
Out of breath, she sat back, swiveled her head to focus on the home.
She heard Luca take a breath. “Okay then. Fine.”
“Fine? What is fine?” What the hell did that mean? She looked at him now, spoiling for a fight. Something, anything, to cut out the misery that had become the hamster wheel of her life.