Because the alternative is leaving Ben with a temp agency rotation and Jess unemployed and both of us pretending Vegas and two nights ago never happened.
And yet that’s exactly what we’re going to have to do. Pretend none of it ever happened.
At least this way I can keep her close.
At least this way I can make sure she’s okay.
At least this way I can lie to myself that this is about logistics and not about the fact that I want her near me even though wanting anything feels like betraying everyone.
My phone buzzes. Valentina. My personal assistant.
Dad block in 20 minutes. School pickup. Don’t be late.
Right. Ben.
The only thing that actually matters.
I stand. Grab my jacket. Leave the contract on the table for Elena to file.
In the elevator down I catch my reflection in the polished steel. I look tired. Drawn. Like a man who hasn’t slept well since his wife died and definitely hasn’t slept since he made the spectacular mistake of touching Jess Riley.
The doors open on the ground floor. Filepe is waiting by the Range Rover. Professional. Alert. Ready to run the school movement plan that keepsBen safe from threats that probably don’t exist but I can’t stop imagining.
“Mr. Fiore.” He opens the door.
I slide into the back seat. Pull up the school app to confirm pickup time. Check the weather. Make sure I have Ben’s snack.
Conchiglie al burrofor breakfast. Apple slices for after kindergarten. Bedtime story at night.
This is what matters.
Not contracts or chemistry or the way Jess’s body moves or how she’d feel under me again or the fact that I’m already counting hours until Monday.
Just Ben.
Keep telling yourself that and maybe eventually it’ll be true.
The Range Rover pulls away from the curb.
Monday.
Four days until Jess walks into my house and everything changes.
Four days to prepare.
Four days to build the walls higher and pretend they’ll hold.
Fuck. I’m so not ready.
This is either going to save us or destroy everything.
8
Jess
The school is one of those private Manhattan places where even the kindergarteners probably have better networking connections than I do.
I’m standing on the sidewalk outside the building labeled PS (Public School) whatever-the-fancy-number-is, and Jag is doing this thing where he scans the entire block like assassins might be lurking behind the organic juice bar across the street.
