Jess is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Order matters to me as well. Just of a different kind. I get why you need control. But you can’t schedule joy.”
She’s right.
Fuck.
Completely right.
“You’re good at this,” I tell her.
She seems confused. “At what?”
“Seeing what people need. Even when they themselves can’t see it.”
She looks away. But I see the blush climbing her neck. The same flush I remember from her apartment. From when I made her fall apart under my hands.
Christ I want her.
I want to back her against this fucking counter. Taste that beautiful neck. Make her forget every boundary we drew.
But Ben is still here, talking to Frederick near one of the planters.
And Ethan just left.
Every reason this is a bad idea is still valid.
So instead I pick up the empty pizza box. “Let’s get her inside.”
We move downstairs. Ben is between us, chattering about yeast and bubbles and pizza growing, less animatedly than before maybe, but her joy is still palpable.
For the first time in two years I’m not justsurviving the evening. I’m actually living it. Maybe even... enjoying it?
And that scares the hell out of me.
Because joy feels like betrayal. Feels like forgetting. Feels like admitting that life goes on even when you don’t want it to.
But watching Jess guide Ben through bath time, and listening to them laugh over bubbles and brave breaths, and seeing my daughter relaxed instead of rigid...
Maybe joy isn’t betrayal after all.
Maybe it’s just what happens when you finally stop fighting the thing you need.
I don’t know if that makes me a better father or the worst kind of bastard.
12
Jess
I’m standing in Marco’s home office pitching an idea that’s either brilliant or completely delusional.
“So,” I say, gripping my notebook like it’s a life jacket. “I have a proposal.”
Marco’s behind his desk, all six-two of controlled intensity in a tight black henley that makes his muscles bulge in all the right places. His dark eyes are locked on me and I’m trying very hard not to think about how those hands currently folded over the desk felt gripping my waist not all that long ago.
When your boss looks like a Roman statue but you’re contractually obligated to keep your hands to yourself... a contract that you yourself insisted on...
“I’m listening.” His voice is low, and gravelly, and I just know I’m going to have to change my underwear after this.
Professional, Jess. Be professional.
