And neither will Jess.
32
Jess
My phone buzzes at eight o-clock that Wednesday night and I nearly drop my attempt at scrambled eggs because it’s Marco’s name on the screen.
When your boss calls after hours and your first thought is ‘oh God what did I break.’
“Hey,” I answer, trying to sound casual. “Everything okay? Is Ben alright?”
“She’s fine.” His voice has that low warmth that does things to my underwear I absolutely cannot think about. “She’s still with her grandparents.”
Right. The spoiling-before-the-hunting-trip thing. Which I’m still not thrilled about but have agreed to attend because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment and woodland terror.
“So everything’s good then?” I ask, scraping my sad eggs onto a plate.
“Yeah.” A pause. “I’m cooking. Wondered if you wanted to come over for dinner.”
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth.
When your billionaire boss invites you over while his kid isgone and you have to pretend you don’t know exactly what that means.
“I... I probably shouldn’t,” I stammer, even as every cell in my body screams the opposite. “We agreed to ice, remember? For Ben.”
“We did.” Another pause. The kind that feels loaded with want. “But she’s not here tonight. And I’m makingspaghetti all astice.”
My fork clatters against the plate.
He knows that’s my favorite. The one dish he made during Family Meal Monday that I couldn’t stop thinking about for days. Lobster and pasta and that sauce that tasted like the ocean had a love affair with butter. It was the bestspaghetti all asticeI’ve ever had.
“That’s playing dirty,” I tell him.
“Is it working?”
I look at my scrambled eggs. They’re dry and sad and definitely not spaghetti and lobster.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out smaller than I intend. “It’s working.”
“Good. Jag can pick you up in twenty.”
“I can take the subway...” I counter, my independent nature rearing its usual head.
“Jess.” Just my name. But the way he says it makes my stomach go all butterfly-like. “Let Jag drive you.”
I agree because arguing feels pointless when I’m already reaching for my jacket.
The drive is quiet. Jag doesn’t ask questions, which I appreciate because I don’t have answers. Just this electric buzz under my skin that says tonight is different. That the ice was always going to be temporary. That we’ve been circling this moment since the primary suite nights during the press siege.
When you realize you’re about to cross every remaining line and you’re equal parts terrified and desperate for it.
The townhouse is dark except for warm light spilling from the kitchen. Marco’s at the stove when I walk in, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly messed like he’s been running his hands through it.
“Hey,” he says, not turning around.
“Hey yourself.” I set my bag on the counter and try to act normal even though my hands are shaking. “Smells amazing.”
“Should be ready in five.” He plates with that chef precision I’ve watched many times but somehow tonight it feels intimate. Like I’m seeing something meant to be private.
