Chapter Twenty-One

LUCA

MONDAY, OCTOBER 23RD, 2023

H olborn Dining Room is almost as elegant as our hotel, with fancy chandeliers hanging overhead and red leather upholstered seats. Even though the lighting is on the dimmer side for dinnertime, I can still see the glossy haze in Finley’s green eyes. She’s on her second glass of wine before the waiter has even brought out our food, but I can’t say I blame her with the way Genevieve is putting on a flirty display next to me as she talks—her hand falls on my arm every now and then as she throws her head back with a laugh.

I don’t even know what the fuck she’s laughing at. I haven’t really been listening. My attention span is only big enough for one , and she’s sitting across from me, chugging her wine and gripping the glass as if her life depends on it.

If we were alone, I’d tell her she’s being a brat. Irresponsible. She’s taking her frustrations out on the wine and making no attempt to hide the daggers she’s shooting at Genevieve from across the table.

I want to wrap that ponytail in my fist as I?—

“How old are you, Professor Serrano?” Genevieve asks.

I sigh quietly. “Older than you.”

She smirks before pursing her lips. “Thirties?”

As I lift my gaze, it’s not Genevieve it falls on, but Finley. She throws her head back, downing the rest of her glass and licking her top lip as her eyebrow quirks at me in a silent dare, beckoning me to answer the question—but I don’t. My lips are sealed. Our eye contact doesn’t falter until she breaks first, looking down at her lap. I fight the arrogant smile that pulls at my lips and reach to take a sip of my own wine.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with thirties,” Genevieve continues, completely oblivious. “I like thirties. More mature. More manly …you know?”

I’m growing more impatient by the second at her nagging questions, and that only fuels the anger lying dormant in my blood. Even my skin is warm. Anger issues are nothing new to me, but the last thing I want to do is explode from annoyance and freak everyone in a ten-foot radius out. My fingers flex on my thigh as I focus on breathing in and out calmly.

Luckily, the waiter returns with our food, interrupting Genevieve’s persistence. I watch as he sets down a simple salmon dish in front of Finley, cocking my head slightly as her eyes meet mine. Her and that childlike palate. I know the same thought flickers through her head, taking us back to that night in her apartment when she sat on my face, because I can see the way her nipples harden beneath her thin dress.

No fucking bra.

My jaw clenches so hard, I swear, a molar could crack.

For a moment, I can’t fathom that she would’ve had an inkling to do that on purpose, because I’m just a fucking unhinged guy who needs to get laid, but then, the toe of her boot slides up my calf slowly. She even orders another glass of wine as she does it, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to clamor across this table and take her right here.

I need to get my shit together. Right fucking now.

“What are you both majoring in?” I clear my throat into my fist after I speak, looking down at my plate and taking a bite in an attempt to compose myself.

Of course, Genevieve answers first. “I’m getting my bachelor’s in English. I plan on going into sports journalism.”

I nod, chewing my food before looking up at Finley.

“I, uh…” She trails off, licking her lips. “I’m majoring in English, but I don’t really know what I want to do with it, I guess.”

Her revelation is surprising—as much as she tries to be so put together all the time, I would’ve guessed her career path was set in stone. There is nothing wrong with feeling indecisive about the future, but it’s also not my place to speak on it. I’m a former hitman, for fuck’s sake. My life is a complete shit show.

“Don’t you only have this year left?” Genevieve counters.

“Yes.”

Genevieve raises a single brow before sipping her wine.

“Still time to decide.” Finley shrugs, picking at her food. And there she goes again, her confidence faltering as her demeanor changes.

“Nothing wrong with that,” I say coolly.

“What about you?” Genevieve directs the attention onto me, and from the way she twists in her chair to face me, her knee brushing mine, she’s been itching for it all night. “Was it your lifelong dream to become a British Lit professor?”

“No.”

The word leaves my mouth abruptly—a clear sentiment I won’t be continuing this conversation or entertaining her minuscule advances. Her knee withdraws from my space as I hear her suck in a deep breath before pushing back from the table. Bundling up her cloth napkin, she tosses it next to her still-full plate as she excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

Thank fucking God.

“I feel like I’m third wheeling on a date,” Finley says, swirling her wine glass in her hand before setting it down on the table.

My chest heaves as I stare over at her. The tension is palpable despite the open dining room. “I thought you didn’t have a problem with her?”

“I don’t .”

I hum skeptically.

Her pink cheeks are flushed a deep crimson now as her nostrils flare, and I think that’s my new favorite color. As flustered as she appears, due to a mixture of her anger and the alcohol in her system, I can still see the hardened pebbles beneath her dress. It’s nowhere near cold in this restaurant. A smirk flitters along my lips because she’s turned on, and the thought of her being angry at me makes my cock strain against my slacks.

“I have a problem with feeling like I don’t exist when I’m sitting right here .” She pushes up from the table, the chair scraping against the floor loudly.

“Finley—”

“I’m going back to the hotel.”

I scoff. “Not by yourself.”

“Yes,” she grumbles. “By myself. Goodnight, Professor Serrano.”

For fuck’s sake .

A string of curses leaves my lips as she stalks off, disappearing between a crowd of people who enter the restaurant, her ponytail swishing sassily behind her. My boiling blood feels like it might burst from my skin as I search for the waiter, eager to flag him down and pay so I can chase after her. She’s three wine glasses deep and wandering the streets of London by herself—fuck that. I use two fingers to quickly wave the waiter over once I catch sight of him, but that view is blocked as Genevieve plops back down in her seat.

“What’s the rush?” she chirps.

I crack my neck to avoid snapping someone else’s. “Finley went back to the hotel. She’s not feeling well. I’m not comfortable with her finding her way back alone, so I’m getting the check.”

“She’ll be fine .”

Ignoring her, I twist my head toward the waiter, who places the bill down in front of me. Digging through my wallet, I throw some twenties on the table. I know I probably look like a maniac with the way I’m rushing around, but the thought of something happening to Finley on the way back to the hotel has me on the brink of losing my shit.

“Just more time for us,” Genevieve adds, putting her hand on my arm to stop me.

“No, Ms. Pierce,” I growl lowly. The rumble of my chest has her eyes widening partially. “ Enough .”

She doesn’t say anything else as she stands from the chair and follows behind me as I maneuver through the dinner crowd toward the entrance. My palms are clammy, and my forehead pricks with sweat as the anger inside me simmers. The cool air outside feels good against my skin as we push through the front door of the restaurant, my eyes searching for any sign of Finley in the dark streets illuminated only by dim street lamps.

I’m going to find her, and when I do, I’m going to spank her ass so hard, it’ll be the same red color her cheeks were when she left. And I’m not going to stop until she’s a sobbing, begging mess over my knee.