Lunar Crest University (Forbidden Fruit)

Chapter Eighteen

LUCA

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 21ST, 2023

T he dark brown brick of my mother’s house appears almost black in the dreary afternoon rain. Clusters of Red Columbine flowers bloom in front of the bay windows, drooping slightly as water patters against the red and white petals. It’s a beautiful house, resting along the river that emerges from an abundance of woods scattered just outside Lunar Crest, shrouded in greenery and vines cascading the exterior.

With large windows to see the everlasting rain, the river rushing quietly behind the house, and a library that takes up nearly half of the main floor, it’s my mother’s dream home.

It reminds me of why I did what I had to do when I worked under Javier, why I wanted out, and why I’m being sucked right back in. I only wanted to protect the people I care about, which I’m still doing, but seeing my mother always puts things into perspective for me. When my head doesn’t feel like it’s screwed on right, this is where I end up.

And my head is fucked.

You’re an anti-hero.

Finley’s words repeated like a prayer in my head for days. The conversation was already a week old, but it was fresh in my mind, like she’d just spoken it aloud again for the first time. If I was smart, like I should have been, I would have never gone to her apartment. No —instead, I was the stupid motherfucker who murdered a man in broad daylight, stuffed him in my trunk, and then went to her apartment.

The memories of what happened next bleed back into my brain, and I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles pale as I stare at the house.

Fuck me.

Pulling my hood over my head, I push open the car door and step out into the rain. The sound of the droplets against my raincoat distracts me from the impending thoughts of how good Finley tasted on my tongue, and I straighten my shoulders as I approach the craftsman front door of my mother’s house. Rapping my knuckles against the wood, my chest heaves with a quiet sigh.

Mi mamá will know something is wrong with me right off the bat if I don’t get my shit together before this door opens. She has always been impossible to lie to and even more impossible to hide anything from, so it was inevitable when she found out how I managed to get her and my sisters to the States twelve years ago. She nearly beat me senseless with a frying pan after I admitted it to her while she was making breakfast in her brand-new kitchen, but she eventually accepted it.

My sisters don’t know, and I prefer to keep it that way.

The less people who know how much of a fuck up I am, the better.

The door swings open, and I peer down at mi mamá, who has a dish towel thrown over her shoulder and flour strewn across her worn apron. Her brown eyes are lighter than mine, and so is her soul. They’re warm, a few shades darker than honey, squinting at me as her brows knit. Wrinkles accent her eyes and the corners of her mouth from smiling so much. Her thick, dark hair is in her usual braid—her go-to while she’s cooking.

“Luca?” She takes the dish towel from her shoulder and whacks me with it. “Where have you been, mijo ? You hardly text or call, and you know how much that worries me. You could’ve at least told me you were coming over. I would’ve made more bu?uelos .”

Resting my hands on her shoulders, I lean down to kiss her cheek as I shuffle past her and into the dry house that smells like my favorite dessert. “I know, mamá. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with this teaching job.”

“Too busy to talk to your mother or sisters?”

The jab stings my chest, and I turn around in the entryway to give her an apologetic look. “I deserve that. I am sorry.”

She walks toward me, the top of her head coming up to my chest, and she reaches up to place her palm against my scruffy cheek. “You’re here now . I’m so happy to see you, mijo .”

“I’ve missed you, mamá .” Kissing her forehead, I turn to head into the kitchen. Baking supplies scatter the marble island in the middle, and the light above the stove illuminates the bu?uelos as they fry in the pan. It smells like cinnamon and home . “Where are the girls?”

I haven’t seen my sisters in months. Emilia is the middle child, five years younger than me, and resembles our father. Her black hair falls to her waistline, and her hazel eyes are round like his. She’s his twin, and she can’t deny it—not with her fiery attitude. Carmen is the youngest, freshly graduated from high school, and the sweetest human being on the planet. She radiates light, and she’s everything I wish I could be—a mirror of our mother, inside and out.

I’ve missed them.

“They’re young, Luca.” She shuffles into the kitchen behind me and peeks into the pan. “They have lives. Had they known you were coming, they’d be here. Sí ?”

Masking the disappointment that floods me, I nod. “I know , I know. I’ll just catch them next time.”

“Which will be soon, I hope.”

“You’ll hear from me more.” Shedding my wet coat, I hang it on the back of one of the dining room chairs. “I promise.”

She is quiet as she whisks the pan from the stove eye and dumps the dessert on a plate covered by a paper towel—but I know silence isn’t good when it comes to my mother. She’s either angry or upset, and honestly, I never liked being on the receiving end of that. It’s one thing to disappoint just any person, but disappointing her is another thing entirely. My family’s opinion of me means, well—fuck, everything .

“If it’s just the two of us,” I say, trying to break the ice. “Why can’t I have some bu?uelos ?”

She narrows her eyes. “Because they’re for me .”

I know she’s joking, since she can only have sugar in moderation because of her diabetes, but I play along anyway.

I drop my chin as I jut my lip out just a tad. “You’re going to eat all of those?”

She has been a sucker for that since I was little. As a boy, I probably got away with way too many things because of that look. Those puppy dog eyes , she’d say. It was always obvious when it was working because she’d roll her eyes and wave her hands in a dismissive way—just like she’s doing now. The sight makes me crack a smile as I lean against the marble counter of the island.

“You can have one for each question you answer.” She raises her eyebrows expectantly as her hands rest on her hips.

Sighing, I rub a palm down my face. “ Mamá .”

“Who is keeping you busy?” she asks. “And don’t say work, because I know you’re lying, mijo .”

Fuck.

“I’m not lying to you.”

I feel guilty as soon as the words leave my mouth. It was rocky after she had found out the truth about the kind of work I had done to get them here, and I promised her I would never lie to her again. Now, here I am, breaking my fucking promise.

I seem to be breaking a lot of things these days.

“No dessert for you, then.” She shrugs as she sprinkles the sugar over them.

An exasperated grunt rumbles through my chest as I give her a pointed look.

“You act like I don’t know when you’re lying to me.”

“You’re a meddler,” I say.

Her eyebrows are practically touching her hairline now as she clicks her tongue disapprovingly. With oven-mitt hands, she grabs the hot plate and whisks it away—knowing damn well those things are the way to my heart. She’d make them twice a week when I was a child. I’ve always had a sweet tooth. Maybe that’s why I have such trouble fighting my urges around Finley.

“Fine.” I grip the countertop as I groan. “ Fine . Jesus, mamá . It’s just some girl.”

Twisting around, she cocks her head in almost disbelief. “Some girl ? Does she know you call her just some girl?”

Finley Dunaway was not just some girl. She was an enigma—beautiful, intelligent, soft-spoken at times while fiery during others, and someone who saw me as more than what I truly was. Where I saw darkness, she searched for light. Where I stained everything I touched, she made it blossom. She was never just some girl to me. So, that’s what I say.

“She’s not just some girl.”

She walks toward me, dessert in hand.

“ Metiche ,” I mutter, taking it and biting into it in one swift movement.

“Does she know you talk to your mother like that?” I stifle a laugh as she whacks me with her dish towel again. “Who is she?”

This conversation is a tough pill to swallow, but maybe that’s what I need, to feel that fat ass pill getting stuck in my throat and reminding me of the risks I’m taking so, when I feel too comfortable, I can remember my situation is far from it. I’m in a shit storm of massive proportions that only ends with me doing the very thing I swore I would never do again.

I stare at her for a moment. “My student.”

The tough pill feels like molten lava going down as I speak the truth out loud.

“Luca! Tu deberías saberlo mejor. ” Her eyes are wide with shock. “What are you thinking, eh ? You know what this job means for you.”

“I know. It’s not… She’s not—” I groan as I fling my hand in the air aimlessly. When was the last time I felt flustered? This is fucking ridiculous. “She’s nearly graduated. It’s not like that. She’s just?—”

Fucking hell.

“ Oh, dios mío . You can’t even speak correctly. She must be special.”

Pushing away from the counter, my eyes practically roll toward the back of my head as a weak scoff leaves my lips. The sound is pathetic, and my stomach twists as I mentally curse myself.

“You’ve never even brought a girl home to see me, Luca,” she chides. “I’ve never heard you speak of any woman before.”

Because there was never anything other than one-night stands and hookups I wouldn’t see again. If I wasn’t serious about them, I knew better than to bring them home to meet the family. For a while, I had convinced myself I just didn’t have time for anything serious. My life was a revolving door of messes that I had to clean up—throwing a girl into the mix never sounded right.

I turn and hold my hand out. “Well, you’re holding me hostage with my favorite dessert.”

“What’s her name?” She plops another one into my palm.

“Finley.”

“Do I get to meet her?”

Her question makes the pastry feel like tar stuck inside my throat as I attempt not to choke. “That would make it serious. I don’t need it to be serious. Like you said, this job means something to me. I can’t risk everything I’ve worked so hard for.”

Meanwhile, I’m guilty as fuck for still pursuing her. The job does mean everything to me, but I forget all about that damn college when I’m looking at her. Her hair. Her long legs. Her pink cheeks. I’ve tasted her, for fuck’s sake. How do I simply forget about something that tastes so sweet? Maybe I was lying to my mother again—these bu?uelos aren’t my favorite dessert.

“My son is blushing.” Walking toward me, her hands find my shoulders. “And that isn’t something you do. Bring her to me, por favor .”

“Okay, mamá .” Her cheeks lift as she beams up at me. “ Okay .”

With a swift pat on my cheek, she turns to start cleaning up the mess that accumulated during her baking. I watch her in silence as she tidies up, but my mind is loud. The thought of bringing Finley around my mother and sisters is enough to make my neck prick with sweat. Not because I feel ashamed of our… situationship , but because I’m afraid. Afraid she’ll see something in me, a glimpse of hope in what we could be—something I can’t give her.

I’ve already fucked up enough as it is. I’ve jeopardized her safety. The last thing I need to do is break her heart, too.

“Now that I’ve stuffed you with your favorite dessert,” she says. “I guess now would be a good time to tell you that Emilia and Carmen are both out with their boyfriends.”

My deafening thoughts screech to a halt.

“ What? Carmen is a baby, mamá .” I roll my bottom lip harshly between my teeth. “She’s out with a boy? Why would you let her do that?”

She scoffs. “She’s an adult, Luca.”

“She’s eighteen.”

“A legal adult,” she urges.

Legal adult, my ass. No matter how old Carmen is, I’ll always think of her as my baby sister. She’s the youngest of the three of us, so there’s no way I can imagine her with a boy . All I can picture is the little girl who was soft-spoken as a child, who would hide behind me because she was shy, who always asked me to read her a bedtime story because it helped her sleep.

“Like hell,” I grumble. “Who is this guy?”

“He’s a nice boy.” She swats at the air. “Calm down.”

Gritting my teeth, I try to steady my breathing.

“They have to live their lives, you know. You can’t protect them forever.”

The way she’s looking at me only makes my nostrils flare. Her eyes are warning and pleading all at the same time, staring me down with an unspoken urgency. She knows just how far I am willing to go to keep them safe. The worry is apparent as it flashes in her irises.

I may not be able to protect everyone forever, but that isn’t going to stop me from trying.