Yes, a no one.
And all I can do is sit here in the dark, file this under “lust and bad timing,” and try not to cry.
5
Marco
At six a.m., the espresso machine hisses like it’s personally offended.
I pull a double shot and knock it back while staring at the herb garden through the kitchen window. When I finally look away, my gaze snags on Isotta’s ceramic mixing bowl, still sitting on the shelf where she left it.
I should use it.
Or pack it away.
Instead, I do what I always do.
Nothing.
Rosa’s already moving through the kitchen with the efficiency of a woman who’s cooked for three generations of Italian families. She’s set out Ben’s breakfast.Conchiglie al burro. The kid won’t eat anything else before school. Fine by me. Consistency is the only thing keeping us both upright.
“Mr. Fiore.” Rosa doesn’t look up from the stove. “You need to eat as well.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re not good. You look like hell.”
I don’t bother to respond. I slept maybe two hours. The rest of the night I spent replaying every goddamn second of what happened in Jess Riley’s apartment.
Her skin.
Her sounds.
Her feel.
The taste of her.
The way she said my fucking name when I was fucking the shit out of her.
Marco Marco Marco.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t have gone to her place. I sure as hell shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did. And I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about it now while my daughter is about to walk into this kitchen expecting her father to have his shit together.
“Daddy?”
Ben appears in the doorway, already dressed in her school uniform. Navy jumper, white shirt, those ridiculous knee socks she insists on wearing even though they never stay up. Her hair is a disaster. Dark corkscrew curls that fight every brush, every elastic, every attempt at control. Just like her mother’s.
“Morning,piccola.” I crouch down and she walks into my arms. Five years old and she still smells like baby shampoo. “Ready for school?”
“I guess.”
That’s her standard answer to everything. Noncommittal. Anxious. She worries about things a five-year-old shouldn’t worry about. Whether the other kids will talk to her. Whether her teacher will be mad if she forgets to raise her hand. Whether I’ll be there when she gets home.
I’m always be there.
Well. Almost always.
