It was stupid, but I hoped Luca was looking at my Instagram feed.

I snapped a selfie, then one of Matt and some guy from advertising as we sat at a table near the bar. My cleavage looked pretty awesome, if I did say so myself, in the low, U-neck cotton dress—one of many I'd bought on sale in anticipation of a hot Florida summer.

I uploaded the photo and considered the hashtags while smirking. The previous weekend, when I was at Luca's house—when we were getting along—I'd persuaded him to sign up for Instagram under a fake, anonymous account name _Italy-Man111_ and he'd followed me.

After deadline. #VodkaRedBull #80snight #Partylikeajournalist

I slammed back that first drink, the alcohol a comforting burn sliding down my throat. Then I sipped my second because my stomach was approaching queasytown.

It wasn't because of the booze. My stomach had been like this for days, ever since the fight with Luca. Now, it was Friday night, five days later, and I was at the Iguana listening to stupid '80s music.

I should have tried to join in the conversation with my newsroom friends about that day's selection of front-page stories, or about the massive layoffs at several Florida papers, but talking about journalism held no appeal. Instead, a memory of Luca drifted into my mind. We'd been on the beach one afternoon the previous weekend and he had kissed me ferociously, as if it were the final kiss of his life.

I got sweaty behind my knees just thinking of it.

When I snapped out of my reverie, my friends were still talking. The thought of never kissing or touching Luca again made my stomach hurt more. Scooping up my phone, I checked my texts, voicemail, and email for the thousandth time.

Like he'd ever messaged me or emailed me. Really, he'd only ever called a few times and never left voicemail. He'd left no trace of himself in my life, and it almost made me sob when I realized he probably wanted it that way.

Thank God I hadn't had sex with him. At least I was getting out of this relationship with a gossamer-thin thread of dignity. Annoyingly, I'd left some clothes and my favorite lipstick at his house, and I thought about drunk-dialing him when I got home. I imagined teasing him on the phone, enticing him into coming to my house...

No. I was still angry at him for acting like an ass.

The DJ said something about how that evening was called The Flashback Café, and how he was going to play some classic, slow-dance '80s songs. I rolled my eyes at Matt, who chuckled.

Matt. He was single. He was cute. Maybe I should hook up with him to forget Luca. He'd driven me to the Iguana tonight, and would be driving me home. So maybe he'd been thinking along the same lines...

No. Screwing Matt was a shitty idea if I'd ever had one. Imagine if I did and we had to face each other in the newsroom or go on another assignment together? I shuddered at the possible complications such a scenario would cause.

A song came on, and I recognized it as one my mother had loved. It had been Heather Shaw's favorite song in the world, which was why the first gospel-like strains of "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me" by Culture Club plunged me into an even darker mood. My mother used to sing this to herself while brushing her hair, looking into the mirror in our tiny log cabin bathroom.

The lyrics were so sad. Had my mom been thinking about my dad as she sang? I'd never asked, and fought back tears when I realized I'd never get the chance to ask my mother anything again.

Crap. I was a mess tonight.

I turned to the group and pretended to be interested in the conversation. Nodding and emitting "mmmhmm" at appropriate times made me feel a bit more normal, like I was getting back to real life.

"Dude, you want a fireball shot? You're getting a fireball shot. You look like shit," Emily yelled.

I winced, then laughed. I'd told Emily about my fight with Luca.

Older couples packed the dancefloor. Matt tilted his head at them and looked at me with hopeful puppy-dog eyes. "Dance?"

Oh God. I shook my head and took a swill of my drink, pretending to inspect my napkin.

Mercifully, the song ended. I looked up, and Emily plopped the fireball in front of me. I grabbed it, closed my eyes, and tossed it back. I grimaced as the candy-spicy liquid slid down my throat, then opened my eyes and saw...

Luca?

He stood on the other side of the room, staring at me across the dance floor, leaning against a post.

He wore charcoal gray pants, like a businessman. Black shoes. A white, button-down shirt, also very businesslike. His stubble was longer, practically a beard. Everything on him looked dark and brooding. His eyebrows, his hair, his gaze.

He was even smoking a cigarette, which should have turned me off. But it didn't. Not even a little. The way he raised the cigarette to his lips and squinted at me, then exhaled, was thrilling. Bad in every good way possible. The intensity in his eyes left me breathless.

Emily jabbed me in the ribs. "Matt's going for more shots!"

I didn't respond, just quietly touched Em's arm with my fingers and stared as Luca moved toward us, languidly, dangerously. My mouth felt dry, and as he got closer, his eyes almost seemed colorless.

"Oh. Oh!" Emily's hand gripped my forearm. "Is that Luca?"

He walked up to our table, and every woman within a ten-foot radius, including me, especially me, was speechless. He stood nearby, and with a glance, looked down at an ashtray, casually crushing the cigarette into it. He lifted his gaze to me, and the corner of his mouth turned into a half-smile.

Was it apologetic? Commanding? Regretful? I had no idea.

I swallowed. Anything I could say in that moment—introductions to my friends, a reprimand for being mean, a simple hello—seemed inadequate. Stupid. I grinned nervously.

Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart" came on, and Luca held out his hand.

"Dance?"

I looked around at my friends, who were all either swooning or gaping. Even Matt, who was passing out shots, was grinning. They were of no help now. I tried to laugh away the drama of the moment and shrugged.

Luca leaned close to my ear. "I'm sorry, Skylar. I'm here to apologize."

My heart racing, I stood up and slipped my hand into his. He pulled me to him, and the heat of his body was magnetic. I couldn't detach myself if I tried.

"This is like a cheesy eighties video," I whispered as colored disco lights soared around the room. The song playing was all power chords and theatrical lyrics. How people spent a decade listening to this was beyond me.

But shit. It seemed to capture everything I was feeling.

Smiling and flashing those half-lidded, sensual eyes, Luca led me onto the dancefloor. Right to the middle. Memories of eighth-grade dances and awkward moves with boys in a cold gym in Vermont popped into my mind, and I giggled.

The vodka and the shot left me a little dizzy and floaty, and the idea that I was slow-dancing with this dark, delicious man at a place called the Sloppy Iguana on a hot Florida night made me laugh harder.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he pulled me close, pressing his lips near my ear as his hands spanned the small of my back. His nose grazed the side of my temple, and I noticed he smelled faintly of tobacco and spicy limes.

"Bellissima," he whispered. "You look gorgeous tonight."

"How did you know I was here?" I murmured.

"Uh, you told the world on Instagram."

I smiled into his neck. So, he had been reading my Insta feed. Moth, meet flame.

"Why are you all dressed up like that?" I pulled back to look at him and traced his jaw with my finger. His almost-beard was soft, and I wanted to bury my nose in his face. So I did.

"You said you wanted to see me in something other than shorts and a T-shirt. Do you approve?"

My fingers stroked his neck under his collar. "I do. A lot."

We held each other and swayed.

"I didn't know you smoked."

He sighed. "I don't. I quit a year ago, but I was particularly stressed out today. I'm sorry I stink."

"Are you here to yell at me more? You were a jerk last weekend, you know that, right? I shouldn't even be talking to you."

His lips were close to my ear, and I shivered, feeling myself get wet from his voice. It was so unfair, the effect he had on me.

"No. I'm not here to yell at you. And yes, I'm aware I was a jerk. I'm sorry."

"Hmmm. Are you here to tell me I've had too much to drink? Because I have."

"No."

"Are you here to tell me to stop snooping into your past?"

"Not at all."

I stroked the back of his head, running my fingers through his hair. God, how I'd craved him. Missed him. Those stupid song lyrics matched my feelings. Big, dramatic, messy.

"Then...why are you here?"

"To dance with you." He kissed my forehead as we moved in a slow circle. "To kiss your gorgeous mouth."

We stopped swaying to the music. He cradled my face in his hands and kissed me deep as the older couples danced around us.

He didn't hold back with his lips or tongue. I'd never before been kissed in such a wicked, sex-could-happen-at-any-moment way in public. He tasted like cigarettes and smelled like coffee, and it was shocking I wasn't turned off by his smoking. His big hand grasped the back of my head, and I felt like I was falling.

In love.

____