But the contract. The rules. Ethan. All of it.
So instead I just say, “Ben knows you love her. That’s what matters.”
“So, tonight,” he’ says crisply. He’s already moving on, back to business mode. “Knife safety demo in the carriage house. Ben and twostaff kids. Quick session. I need you to record it. Ninety seconds max. Internal use only. No faces. No posting.”
My brain scrambles to catch up. “Why the carriage house?”
“No filming in the main house. Ever.” He says it like a law. “Studio space keeps everything contained.”
Right. Boundaries.
“Six thirty. After dinner.”
His phone buzzes again. He glances at it. “Elena’s ready for your review. I’ll forward it.”
“That was quick... great, I’ll, um.” I gesture vaguely toward the door. “I should check on Ben. Homework time.”
“Right. Yes.” But he doesn’t move and neither do I.
We’re both just standing here like idiots.
Finally I force myself to step back. To break whatever invisible thing is pulling us together.
“See you at six thirty,” I say.
“Six thirty.” He repeats.
I leave before I do something supremely stupid. Like kiss him. Or combust. Or both.
Six thirty arrivesway too fast.
I’m standing outside the carriage house with my phone, watching Marco unlock the door while three kids bounce around like pinballs. Ben’s clutching Frederick. The other two are staff kids I recognize from family events. A boy around seven and a girl maybe six.
“Remember the rules,” Marco says, flipping on the lights. “We watch. We listen. We don’t touch until I say.”
The space is gorgeous. All butcher block and copper pots and that chef energy Marco radiates when he’s in his element. The kind of energy that makes my stomach do the butterfly.
When your boss transforms into a cooking show host and suddenly you understand why people thirst over chefs.
Stop it.
He pulls out three nylon knives. Bright colors. Completely safe.
The kids lean in.
“These are practice knives,” Marco explains. His voice has gone into teaching mode. “Before we use real knives, we learn the right way.”
I hold up my phone. Frame the shot so it’s just hands and cutting board. No faces. No identifiable features. Just the demonstration.
Marco’s hands move with precision. “Claw grip. See? Fingers tucked. Knuckles forward.”
The kids mirror him. Ben’s tongue pokes out in concentration.
“Good,piccola. Just like that.”
He guides them through carrot coins. Cucumber slices. The movements are slow. Deliberate. And watching his hands work does absolutely nothing for my ability to remain professional.
Those hands.
