My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century (21 page)

She laughs at the corny movie reference and takes another sip of lemonade. I turn back to the table to snag a cookie and hear her say, “Oh, there he is.”

“Who?” I ask, torn between double chocolate chunk and macadamia.

“My brother.” Then quiet Angela cups her hand around her mouth and belts out, “Lucas! Over here!”

Intrigued by her unexpected exuberance, I grab a macadamia, turn to follow her gaze, and promptly forget how to chew. Or even breathe.

The guy making his way through the crowd toward us is my age, maybe a year older. He’s tall with broad shoulders and a muscular build—I can tell because his authentic green doublet is contoured to his chest.

The boy from the balcony.

Her brother’s golden-blond hair is styled in a sexy, messy, “this is on purpose” sorta way. And when he smiles, like he is now, a dimple flashes in his bronzed skin. He stops in front of us, and the entire ballroom seems to disappear.

“Cat, this is my brother, Lucas.”

Wetting my suddenly parched lips, I raise a shaky hand. “N-nice to meet you. I’m Cat Crawford, birthday girl.”

Molten-chocolate eyes glance first at my hand and then back at me with an amused glimmer. “Lucas Cappelli, party crasher.”

The hand he wraps around mine is warm and strong, and it takes a second for the name to register. When it does, my hand clenches within his grip.

Cappelli.

I jerk my head around, looking for Reyna or one of my Renaissance relatives, my heartbeat faltering at the thought of Niccolo being here, but I’m surrounded by a sea of modern teens. In shock, I turn back.

The smooth skin between his eyes wrinkles. “Your mom throws a good party,” he says, still watching me.

“Stepmom,” I say distractedly. “Future stepmom.” I shake my head to clear the fog and realize I’m still clutching his hand. With an awkward laugh, I release my hold—and bite my lower lip when he tightens his.

As his eyes roam over my face and I squirm under the scrutiny, I notice the freckle under his eye and the scar on his chin. Both alterations to his sixteenth-century look-alike and obvious ancestor. But then Lucas winks, and it’s as though I’m right back in the shadowed garden of the palazzo courtyard.

Angela clears her throat, and heat rises to my cheeks. Again, I try to release his hand, but this time Lucas tugs me closer. The fresh scent of soap mixed with mint fills my head as he leans down to ask, “Care to dance, birthday girl?”

This close up, it’s hard to remember this isn’t Lorenzo. My gaze falls to the dark doublet stretched across his shoulders, and I nod. One dance—one chance to relive the night of the ball—can’t hurt, right?

Lucas laces his fingers through mine and leads me to the center of the floor, threading us among the dancing bodies. He stops and turns, and the slow, sultry beat of the music works its magic as he glides his hands over the satin of my surcoat, resting them at the small of my back. With a hard swallow, I slide mine up the hard muscle of his arms to clasp them behind his neck.

Is this really happening?

I blink, trying to clear my suddenly fuzzy head, and look up into Lucas’s dark-brown eyes. A side grin steals across his face, and my stomach clenches.

“I hear we’re going to be classmates soon,” he says, his warm breath fanning the loose hair around my face. “Angela and I are transferring in January. It’ll be nice to have a friendly face there.”

I give a noncommittal nod and force a smile at Hayley, dancing behind us with a guy I recognize from bio. She wiggles her eyebrows, giving Lucas the eyeball equivalent of a thumbs-up, and I shake my head.
It’s just a dance.
Then Lucas begins rubbing small circles on my back, and my eyelids flutter.

I want to tell my giddy heart to chill.

Inwardly I wag a finger at my internal organs doing a jig and scream,
This isn’t Lorenzo. You do not have permission to swoon!

My fuzzy brain ignores the message.

I lift my head again, and Lucas rakes a hand through his golden curls. The same deep brown eyes I’ve thought about so often this last month stare back. A soft smile plays across Lucas’s lips, and he ducks his head, the trace of his Italian accent growing stronger as he says, “You know, I’m really glad I came tonight.”

A dancer bumps me from behind, and I stumble. Lucas cups my elbow to steady me, and a low-wattage yet still noticeable hum slides up my arm. My chest actually hurts from how hard my heart hammers.

Nothing about this makes sense. The strange pull between us, him being Lorenzo’s doppelgänger, or the fact that after a month spent declaring no boy could ever measure up to my Renaissance hottie, my entire being completely relaxes in Lucas’s arms.

It’s the last thing that terrifies me.

Lucas continues to watch me, and I watch him back, wondering if he, too, feels the mysterious pull, or if it’s all just in my head. Finally I bring myself to tell him, “I’m glad you’re here, too, Lucas.”

The bemused worry line on his forehead eases, and he pulls me closer, mimicking Lorenzo’s hold from the night in the courtyard. But tonight is different. The lilting, live quartet has been exchanged for perfect, studio-recorded music, and Lorenzo’s familiar woodsy scent traded for mint with a subtle hint of aftershave.

My head spins, filled with both excitement and a guilty feeling of doubt. I lower it to rest on Lucas’s solid chest, and his arms close tighter around me. With his heartbeat pounding beneath my cheek, matching the rhythm of my own, I close my eyes and let the music wash over me.

Epilogue

I jiggle my key in the door and let myself in to an empty house. The
click-clack
of my heels reverberates off the tile in the entryway as I beeline for the kitchen, dropping my heavy suitcases along the way. After the way-too-early, six-hour plane ride from Mississippi, all I want is to tear into a bag of Oreos and drink my weight in soda.

As I pop the top on a can of Sprite, I read the note Dad left me on the fridge. Another apology for sending the car to get me at LAX, a reminder that Jenna won’t be back from New York until tomorrow, and a promise to pick me up for dinner promptly at seven.

My “Love Story” ringtone plays within my bag, and I dig it out with a sardonic smile, assuming the night’s plans have changed already. Thanks to Dad’s temperamental blockbuster star, production is seriously behind schedule. But when I look at my phone, it’s not Dad calling with a profuse apology, after all.

It’s Lucas.

Taking a deep breath and rubbing the back of my neck to relieve the throbbing tension, I tap my finger and accept the call. “Hey there, stranger.”

“So you do know how to answer your phone.” Even though the words are sarcastic, I can hear Lucas’s smile over the phone. I can also hear his slight Italian accent, which makes my betraying stomach do a flip.

Apparently my body is nothing if not fickle.

“Hardy-har-har,” I reply, trying not to smile.

For three weeks, I’ve dodged Lucas’s calls and texts, even spending most of winter break with my grandparents to avoid temptation. But with school starting back up tomorrow and Lucas transferring into my class, Project Evasion has officially hit a snag.

Lucas chuckles on the other end, and a yummy warmth pools in my belly. I squeeze my eyes shut in self-condemnation.

“Just wanted to make sure you got back home in one piece,” he says in a flirtatious, teasing tone. “I’d hate to have to walk the halls tomorrow without a friendly face.”

Immediately my mind fast-forwards to the reaction I know he’ll get in the school halls from the likes of Desiree and the rest of the social elite, and I inwardly sigh.
Yeah, I don’t think you’ll have a shortage of those.

“I’ll be there,” I say, shooting for a breezy tone and having no clue if I make it or not. “All spiffed up and shiny in my new semester finery.”

I smack my head against the granite counter.

Can I possibly be any lamer?

On the other end, Lucas laughs under his breath, and I decide no. I can’t.

“I look forward to seeing what you Americans consider appropriate high school fashion,” he says, his sexy/bordering-on-arrogant smile evident in his voice, and I melt a little bit more.

Even though I’ve spent the last three weeks ignoring most of Lucas’s calls, it doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about him. I have…a lot. But I still don’t have any answers. I don’t know if it’s wrong to like him, or if I should go for it. If he even likes me, or if he’s only interested because of my mama drama and who my dad is, just like everyone else. Then there’s the whole look-alike weirdness. I can’t decide if it’s just a freaky coincidence or a cosmic sign from Reyna.

Where the heck’s a gypsy girl when you need her?

Lucas clears his throat on the line, and I rack my brain for a topic of conversation. I’ve never had a boyfriend or anything close besides Lorenzo, so all of this is uncharted territory. Restless and fidgety, I grab the huge stack of mail beside me and begin flinging pieces across the counter.

Junk mail, bill, junk mail,
Vogue
, junk mail…

My flying fingers freeze on the thick, stiff envelope in my hand. Tossing the rest of the mail aside, my entire body suddenly electrified, I flip the envelope over and then back again.

“Cat, you still there?”

It’s not the lack of a stamp in the corner or return address that has me shell-shocked—I know who sent it. It’s not even the fact that the envelope is sealed with red wax, straight out of some historical novel. No, what stops me is the name written in perfect calligraphy on the cover.

Signorina Patience D’Angeli.

“Yeah, Lucas, I-I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He pauses before saying, “Sure, no problem,” in a tone much less playful then earlier. “See you tomorrow.”

We hang up, and I hesitate a moment, staring at the icons on my phone, wondering if I just completely blew it with Lucas. Then a prickle of unease works its way down my spine, along with a creepy feeling like I’m being watched, and I cast a quick glance around the kitchen. Gingerly I lift the back flap and slide out a small card. The words on it are few but powerful in their mystery, and my hands tremble as I read.

Dear Caterina aka Patience,

The night after our return, I began having another vision. It took me some time to decipher the message, but I finally have. A delivery will be arriving at your door at one o’clock. It is in capable hands; I trust you will know what to do.

Latcho Drom,

Reyna

My gaze snaps to the digital clock on the microwave. According to Reyna, a delivery of some kind will be here in thirty minutes, and I have no doubt it will arrive right on time. Ignoring my grumbling stomach, I snatch up my bags and tear through the house to my room, my mind an endless treadmill of questions. Am I going back to the past? The future this time? Do I have a quest to fulfill? She said she trusts that I’ll know what to do, but how can she be so sure?

Unsure of how or what to prepare for the delivery, I jump in the shower and try to pass the excruciating waiting time by getting ready for anything.

A delivery. What could that mean?

I blow-dry my hair and put on makeup, my mind still racing with ideas. A quick check of the clock shows I have less than five minutes. I throw on a pair of dark-wash Kent 5 jeans and a Blu Moon top, then race down the stairs to wait by the door.

My fingernails drum on the granite countertop, and my knees pound a rhythm against the cabinet. Then, finally, as the grandfather clock in the foyer strikes the hour, the doorbell rings.

My palms slicked with sweat, I hesitantly walk to the door and stop with my hand on the knob. The sound of my pounding heart echoes in my ears, and I take a calming breath. Who knows how my life could change once I turn the knob?

When I do scrounge up the courage to open the door, my eyes bug out, my jaw drops, and I shake my head in disbelief.

“Alessandra?”

Acknowledgments

This book wouldn’t exist without the push and inspiration from my gorgeous niece Hayley and her best friend, Katie. My equally gorgeous other niece, Desiree, advised on all things lingo, clothing, and general cultural whatnot. Without the three of you, I’d still be dreaming of “someday.” Girls, thank you for rocking so hard…and for letting me use your names!

Thanks to the Houston YA/MG Writers Group for teaching me so much, and Mary Lindsey for your constant encouragement. Nancy Bowden and Natalie Markey, thanks for being my first-ever critique partners, and Rose Garcia, thanks for the awesome critiques, yummy margaritas, and much-needed girl talk.

My critique partners are my sanity, and nothing feels complete without their stamp of approval. Shannon Duffy, my lyrical writing goddess, thank you for your unflappable faith in this story, confidence in me, and boundless friendship. Trisha Wolfe, the queen of steam, thanks for teaching me to trust my instincts, putting up with my constant need for techno help, and taking me under your wing. And Victoria Scott, thanks for always keeping it real, challenging me to dig deeper, and making me laugh. It’s because of you three that I found my voice.

So many writers have pored over these pages, offered their friendship, and/or given much-needed guidance. A HUGE thank-you to: Hope Collier, Demetra Brodsky, Kelly Hashway, Brenda Drake, Vicky Dreiling, Debbie Wentlein, Elizabeth Isaacs, Mindy Ruiz, Tiffany King, Brandi Kosiner, Julie Brazeal, Stacey O’Neale, Danielle Barclay, Holly Schindler, Lisa T. Bergren, and everyone at West Houston RWA. And a special shout out to Crystal Waters for her gorgeous artwork on my swag tattoos. You have mad skills, girl!

Tara Fuller, Lea Nolan, Melissa West, Lisa Burstein, Chloe Jacobs, Cindi Madsen, Nicola Marsh, and Diane Alberts: you ladies make writing an absolute blast. Thanks for the virtual giggles, friendship, and support. I LOVE being your pub house sister!

Entangled really is a family, and I’m truly honored to be a part of it. I love all my girls, but have to give a massive shout-out to Jennifer Probst, Laura Kaye, Stephanie Thomas, Rachel Firasek (creator of my amazing trailer!), Cari Quinn, Brooke Moss, Lisa Kessler, and Katee Robert. You ladies inspire me.
*jazz hands*

To our captain, Liz Pelletier, thanks for the tireless work you do and for creating this warm, cozy home. I bow down to your awesomeness. Heather Howland, you are a cover queen! I swear I could stare at my beyond gorgeous cover all day. Misa Ramirez, thanks for sharing your infinite marketing wisdom and humor. Heather Riccio, you are my ninja goddess. You are beyond-words awesome, make miracles happen, and have the ability to make me laugh and cry with happiness at the same time. I am so honored and blessed to have you with me on this journey. You and Tara are publicist angels, and you rock my literary world.

Stacy Cantor Abrams, what can I say? Your enthusiasm is contagious. You understood the story I wanted to tell and then took it and made it shine. Thanks for saving me from the slush pile and putting up with my many e-mails and occasional, inexplicable lapse into being British. You made this entire process a joy. You are my homegirl.

Lauren Hammond, the agent of awesome, thank you for believing in me and always making me smile. I get giddy whenever my phone plays “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” because I know you’re calling. I’m blessed to have an agent who is also my friend. Go #TeamHammond.

To my mother-in-law, Peggy, for being the first to buy this book and your constant cheerleading. To my amazing parents, Ronnie and Rosie, for passing down your love of the written word and reading every book I’ve written. To my brother, Ryan, for going after his dream and inspiring me to do the same. And to my two princesses, Jordan and Cali, for the wonderful talks about black moments and turning points, your handmade covers for my books, and understanding when Mommy needs to work.

And finally, to my husband, Gregg, for never doubting this could happen. Thanks for going to conferences with me, hashing out plot points and character arcs, cooking dinner, and always bragging about me. You are my rock and without you, none of this would be possible. SHMILY!