Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,97
girl who does her ex’s laundry. Frankly, even after all of my granny’s training to be a strong, independent-minded woman, I’m doing a piss-poor job of hating Luca Weaver. The sky is still dark and my eyes are tired and I wish I were doing anything other than what I’m doing right now—picking up Luca for work this morning.
He said he was having car troubles, but he didn’t want to call a driver. So, due to the fact that I’ve drawn the short straw since he stepped foot in LA, I was the unlucky person who had to wake up an hour earlier than normal just to give him a ride.
A yawn escapes my lips as I pull my Honda Civic into Luca’s driveway, and I narrow my eyes when I spot a shiny red sports car in front of the freaking house.
You have got to be kidding me.
The odds of that Porsche having car troubles are slim to fucking none.
Hundred bucks says that bastard tricked me into coming here this morning.
A groan escapes my throat, loud enough to chime over the radio.
Irritated, I honk my horn twice.
But he doesn’t come to the door.
So, I honk two more times.
Two minutes later, no Luca.
Good God. I huff, cut the engine, hop out of my car, and stomp my way toward his front door. Multitasking at my finest, I bang on the door and ring the bell several times.
Thankfully, the door starts to open, and my eyes are graced with Luca standing there in just a pair of boxer briefs.
Holy moly.
It takes all of my willpower not to let my gaze fall down his body, but I manage.
Glare engaged, I stare at him with a hand on my hip. “What the hell, Luca?”
“I’m so sorry.” He runs a hand through his perfectly messy hair. Jesus. No one should look this good when they wake up in the morning. It’s fucking unfair. “I woke up late.”
“Ya think?”
He smirks. “Just come in for a minute, and I’ll hurry up and get ready.”
“I’ll wait in the car.”
“But I have coffee.”
Goddamn him. He knows I can’t resist coffee.
“Ugh. Fine.” I groan and push my way past him and into the house. “But you better move your ass.”
“Will do, sassy pants.” He chuckles behind me and shuts the door.
While Luca heads toward the master bedroom, I make my way into the kitchen, but I don’t miss how far the house has come. Furniture, paintings on the wall, a television in the living room, everything is pretty well set up.
And it looks really nice, actually.
Sophisticated. Modern. Not like a bachelor pad at all.
But I shouldn’t be surprised. Luca’s cabin in Alaska wasn’t anything to snub my nose at. There is no denying the man has taste.
Bailey greets me in the kitchen, and I squat down to pet his ears. He obliges by slapping two licks to the side of my face.
“You’re such a good boy,” I tell him, and he wags his tail in response.
Once Bailey has received his fill of attention, I stand back up and find freshly brewed coffee in the pot on the counter.
I pour myself a cup and add a little sugar and cream to the mix.
The first sip hits my taste buds just right, and I sigh in contentment.
“Besides you,” I tell Bailey, who is now lying by my feet, “this cup of coffee is my favorite thing of this morning.”
I drink a little more of my coffee, and it takes a moment, but when a low, familiar beat filters into my ears, I realize Luca Weaver is listening to music. I scrunch up my nose in surprise and listen to the soft, endearing sounds of Fleetwood Mac’s Gypsy vibrating gently through the surround sound speakers placed throughout his fancy-schmancy home.
He once told me he never listens to music.
If that was the case, what in the hell changed?
Right on cue, the devil himself strides into the kitchen, freshly dressed in a pair of dark, faded jeans and a white T-shirt, and I hate how good he looks.
When my fingers itch to reach out and run through his perfect, messy hair, I clear my throat and change my focus to something less crazy.
“So…you’re listening to music,” I say, and he tilts his head to the side in confusion. “I thought you didn’t listen to music.”
“I didn’t. But I took someone’s advice.” He snags two to-go mugs out of the cabinet and takes the ceramic mug out of my hand. “Someone who is very special