“Morning.” My voice is rough from sleep and feelings I can’t name. “So we’re stuck here?”
“For now.” He stands. Stretches. The Henley rides up just enough to show a strip of skin above his waistband and I have to physically force my eyes elsewhere.
Professional.
You are a professional.
Who is definitely not thinking about that V-muscle thing that disappears into his jeans.
My phone buzzes. Niamh in the group chat.
Recommend temporary live-in of 72 hours for Jess. Elena drafting addendum. Will prep guest suite.
I stare at the message.
Seventy-two hours.
Threedays.
Living in Marco Fiore’s house while we wait for the press to get bored and leave.
“You don’t have to,” Marco says quietly. “If it’s too much—”
“I’ll do it.” The words come out steady even though my heart is trying to escape my chest. “For Ben.”
“For Ben,” he agrees.
But the way he’s looking at me says it’s not just about Ben anymore.
It hasn’t been for a while.
And I’m not sure how long we’ll be able to “keep us on ice.”
That’s exactly what makes this so dangerous.
28
Marco
I’m standing in my kitchen at eight in the morning watching Jess move her overnight bag up to the smallest guest room on Ben’s floor, and every instinct I have is screaming that this is a terrible idea.
Not because she shouldn’t be here. Ben needs her. Filepe’s dawn sweep confirmed what I already knew. We’re locked down for at least seventy-two hours.
No. It’s a terrible idea because last night I spent six hours in the same room as this woman while my daughter slept on the bed, and the only thing that kept me from crossing every remaining line was Ben’s small hand gripping Frederick and the promise we made to put “us” on ice.
Control masquerading as care.
Gideon’s words keep rattling around my skull like a burnt pan that won’t scrub clean.
“Rosa’s prepping the homeschool setup in the library,” I tell Jess when she comes back down. “Niamh cleared the schedule. You’ll have everything you need.”
She nods. Her hair is still damp from the shower. No makeup. One of those soft T-shirts that makes her look younger than twenty-eight. “What about the night rotation? Ben did okay last night but I don’t think that was sustainable for any of us.”
Right. The night rotation.
Because apparently my whole life has become a full-service restaurant where I need logistical plans for sleeping arrangements.
I pull out my phone and open a new note. “Okay. Let’s map this out like a service flow.”
