Tense. That’s one word for it.
Work stuff. Handled.
Okay. Let me know if you needanything.
I almost laugh. What I need is to stop wanting her. What I need is to focus on the media threat instead of mentally undressing my daughter’s nanny. What I need is to figure out how to exist in the same space as Jess without violating every boundary we set.
What I need is impossible.
I’m good,I lie.
The dots appear, disappear.
No response.
I pocket my phone and tell Jag to take me to FHG headquarters.
Time to lock down the properties. Time to make sure Kells doesn’t get a single fucking quote he can twist. Time to protect what I’ve built.
And time to stop thinking about Jess.
At least until tonight when she’s back in my kitchen doing the evening routine with Ben. Close enough to touch. Far enough to make me insane.
I take a deep breath.
I’m a professional.
A businessman.
A father who keeps his priorities straight.
I’m not distracted.
Not even a little bit.
The lie tastes like sourlattebut I swallow it anyway. Because that’s what you do when the heat is on and the tickets are piling up.
You work the station. You keep your head down. You don’t let them see you sweat.
And you sure as hell don’t let some parasitic critic or your own inappropriate desires burn down everything you’ve worked to build.
16
Jess
I’m reorganizing Marco’s mudroom at six in the morning because apparently this is what I do now when I can’t stop thinking about my boss naked.
When your coping mechanism for sexual frustration is color-coded storage bins.
The mudroom is a disaster. Well, not a disaster by normal people standards. But by Marco Fiore’s obsessive-compulsive, everything-has-a-place-and-God-help-you-if-it’s-not-there standards? It’s a mess. And while messy is sometimes good, that’s not the case here.
Ben’s backpack hooks are too high. The umbrella stand blocks the door. Winter gear is mixed with rain gear which is mixing with I-don’t-even-know-what gear. And the morning routine that should take five minutes is taking ten or fifteen because we’re all tripping over each other trying to find stuff.
So here I am. Rearranging a billionaire’s entryway before sunrise because I can’t sleep anyway.
Because every time I close my eyes I see Marco’shands. His mouth. The way.
Enough.
