He’s right.
It’s not really fine.
But what am I supposed to say? That his dead wife’s mother just made it very clear I’m an interloper? That I feel guilty for sleeping with him even though I absolutely don’t regret it?
At least he doesn’t ask me what she said.
“Can we play a game?” Ben asks from her seat. “Me and Frederick want to play.”
“What game?” Marco’s voice shifts. Lighter. Dad mode activated.
“Guess the animal!” She’s already pulling out the set of laminated cards Marco keeps in thebackseat for long drives. “Frederick gets to be the guesser.”
For the next twenty minutes, Ben describes animals while Frederick (via Ben’s voice) makes increasingly ridiculous guesses.
“It has stripes,” Ben says.
“Is it a... pizza?” Frederick-via-Ben asks.
“Pizza isn’t an animal, Frederick!”
“But it could be. If the pizza was alive.”
Marco’s laughing. The sound does things to my chest that have nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with this feeling that maybe I’m a part of something real here.
When you realize you’re not just the nanny anymore.
When you realize that’s both terrifying and perfect.
We’re about forty minutes into the drive when Marco shifts closer. Our thighs were already touching, but now our arms are, too. He leans his head toward me, and his voice drops low enough that Ben can’t hear over her game.
“Can I tell you something?”
My stomach does its usual butterfly thing. “Always.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “When Ben was born, I told everyone I had a son.”
I blink. “What?”
“For the first two years of her life.” His jaw tightens. “I wanted a son so badly. So I just... told people I had one. Used he, him. The whole thing.”
Oh.
Oh wow.
“I was an asshole,” he continues. “A complete asshole. And then one day I looked at her and realized I loved her more than any son. More thananything.”
My throat goes tight.
“I still treat her like a boy sometimes,” he admits. “Rougher than I should. Stricter. Taking her on this hunting trip, for example. Most dads wouldn’t bring a daughter along on a trip like this. But she’s... she’s everything.”
I don’t know what to say. Whatdoyou say to that kind of confession?
He’s Marco Fiore. The restaurateur billionaire who just admitted he’s human and flawed and trying.
“You’re a good dad,” I tell him finally. Softly, so Ben can’t hear. “Like, genuinely good. Ben’s lucky.”
“Am I though?” His eyes meet mine. Dark and searching. His voice is barely a whisper. “A good dad wouldn’t have wanted someone else while his wife was alive. Wouldn’t be sitting here wondering if...”
