Sure. Two attempts, and three YouTube videos later. But he didn’t need the details.
The sensible voice inside her told her hereallyhad to go.
The problem wasn’t him staying. The problem was that she wanted him to.
Bea stood, crossed to the door, and opened it.
He set down the chopsticks and pushed back the chair. Took his time walking over. Stopped close. “Thanks for dinner.” Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, “Don’t keep getting hurt.”
It wasn’t a plea. It was a directive.
When he was gone, Bea stood in the doorway, throat tight. Wondering when Rafael had become someone she shared secrets with. Wondering when she started trusting him at all.
Two days later, Bea stirred her coffee until it went cold. The kitchen in Nico’s pool house was half sunlit, half shadowed, bright where it touched the counter, dim where she sat.
She should have told Gage already. About El Jefe. About Rafael. Probably should have told him yesterday.
She traced the rim of her mug with a fingertip, restless. Telling Gage that Rafael had visited was bad enough. Telling himwhyRafael had visited would mean telling him about Catherine.
And she couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Rafael wouldn’t tell Gage. She was almost sure.
Her phone buzzed.
GAGE: Dinner at mine tonight. 7pm.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
BEA: Could you come to the pool house instead?
Home turf. Maybe that would help. Although she wasn’t sure close proximity to her makeshift spice rack gave her any strategic advantage.
GAGE: Okay.
Dinner was almost over, and she still hadn’t touched her wine.
Across the table, Gage set his knife down deliberately. That gesture—always the start of something he meant to finish.
“You’ve been ready to tell me something since I walked in,” he said, faintly amused. “So tell me.”
Bea’s fingers tightened around her napkin. She’d practiced this all afternoon. “You know all those funny stories I’ve been telling you about Nico’s godfather, El Jefe?” she asked casually. “I found out who he is. It’s…Rafael.”
No real reaction. Mild interest, filing it away. So far, so good.
Bea drew in a breath and pushed on. “And…he came here. To the pool house.”
His eyes moved—just once—cutting across the table like he’d seen the board shift. The silence changed. No longer neutral. No longer safe. She felt it immediately. “When?”
“The night before last,” Bea said.
The pause said everything.
“You waited forty-eight hours to tell me.” Not a question. A judgment.
Her pulse thudded. “I needed time to figure out how to explain it,” she said carefully. “Without making it into something it wasn’t.”
“What was he doing here?”
