Before I can say anything else, the front door creaks open and Rosa enters with her usual quiet efficiency, arms full of brown paper grocery bags. I step away from Lorenzo before she sees how close we were.
“Good morning, Mr. Conti. Ms. Miller.” She sets the bags on the kitchen island and dusts her hands off on her pants before grabbing an apron. “What would you like for breakfast?”
Lorenzo doesn’t miss a beat. He throws me a wicked wink before replying, “Something filling. I had quite the workout this morning.”
Heat floods my face so fast I nearly burn myself on the coffee. I glance down, mortified and thrilled.
Rosa, ever professional, doesn’t even blink. “Very well, sir.”
She starts unpacking the groceries, humming to herself, and just when I think the tension might settle, she pauses.
“Will Ms. Marino be joining you for Christmas dinner?” she asks.
I freeze. The question shouldn’t sting but it does.
Lorenzo, however, doesn’t hesitate. “She’ll be with her family,” he says smoothly. “It’ll just be me and Miss Miller tonight.”
His eyes flick to mine as he says it, and the implication is unmistakable.
Just us.
A private holiday.
Something deeper than convenience, and far more dangerous.
Rosa nods, still unfazed. “Very well. Do either of you have requests for dinner?”
We both shake our heads.
Then Lorenzo reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a cream-colored envelope, extending it to her with a rare softness in his eyes. “Merry Christmas, Rosa.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but she accepts it with a bow of her head. “Thank you, Mr. Conti.”
As she moves back into the kitchen, I take another sip of coffee to hide the sudden lump in my throat.
One night. Just the two of us. It should feel simple. But nothing with Lorenzo ever is.
After we eat breakfast, I slip back to my room under the excuse of needing to rest, but really, I just need space to breathe. Only the moment I step inside, I freeze when I see the bed.
The bedding is a mess—twisted sheets, pillows on the floor, the faintest indentation where he slept beside me. My cheeks flush as I hurry to fix it, smoothing the comforter with shaky hands.
But no matter how neatly I make the bed, his scent is still there. That sharp, smoky blend of cologne and skin that wraps around me like an invisible tether. I inhale before I can stop myself.
And that’s when a soft knock comes at the door.
I spin around, heart leaping into my throat.
Lorenzo stands in the hallway, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other holding a small, wrapped box. There’s a small smile on his face.
“I got you something,” he says.
I blink. “You did?”
“For Christmas.” He steps forward and places the box in my hands.
It’s heavier than I expect. Wrapped in dark green paper, simple and elegant. I hesitate.
“You didn’t have to?—”
