“Hi,” he says softly. He leans in and kisses me. I let myself meet it, brief and warm, and pull back with a small smile I hope reaches my eyes.
“Hi.”
“Come in.” He steps aside. I cross the threshold, and he takes my coat, hangs it up. The house is the same as before: tidy and ordered.
“Wine?” he offers as he walks with me back to the kitchen.
“Better not,” I say lightly. “If I do, I’ll fall asleep in the middle of dinner. I feel like I barely slept all weekend.”
That gets the half-smile I was aiming for. “Water it is. Sparkling?”
“Please.”
He grabs two tumblers and opens a bottle with a hiss, a wedge of lime on the rim of each. I focus on the details I can talk about without shaking. The scent of garlic. The way the light pools over the table. The clink of silver when he sets a glass down on the counter in front of me.
“Smells amazing,” I say.
“Eggplant parm,” he says. “I thought you might like a little comfort food tonight. Salad and bread to go with it.”
“Sounds perfect.” I pick up the glass and sip.
Be normal, Olivia. Sit. Smile. Ask about the day. Do not think about comp codes. Do not think about the Conti freakin’ crime family. Breathe, sip, swallow.
He gestures toward the table. I take a chair at one of the place settings. I realize this is my first time having an actual meal at his house. The only other time I’ve been here was the morning after he came to my office.
I fight the blush as I think of that night in my office. The way he marked me, used me, made me his. The way he finished all over my body, then cleaned me up gently, held me all night, brought me breakfast in bed.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he says.
I blush even harder and clear my throat.
“Uh, nothing,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
He lifts a brow but says nothing.
“I was just thinking,” I start quietly, “about the first time I was here.”
“Ah,” he says with a little smirk. “Memorable night, don’t you think?”
He gives the ends of my hair a playful little tug as he passes me into the kitchen.
I take a second to compose myself as he brings the baking dish over and plates for both of us.
The top of the eggplant parmesan is burnished, edges bubbling. Steam pours into the air as he cuts into it and spoons a square onto my plate, the cheese stretching in slow threads. I wish my stomach didn’t flip at the same time my mouth waters.
“Careful,” he says. “Hot.”
“I see that.” My voice is steady. Good.
He sits across from me. “Let’s get the business out of the way. How did your afternoon shake out? Any fall-out from the weekend?”
“Mostly thank-you emails and a few ‘we’ll be back soon’ notes.” I spear a leaf of basil and drag it through the sauce to buy a second. “Packages tracked the way we wanted. Midweek is going to be stronger than projected if the chatter holds.”
He nods once, approving. “Good. That’s the play.”
He tears a little bread, passes the basket. “Eat.”
I do. The eggplant is tender, the sauce bright, the cheese rich. It’s familiar and comforting in a way that makes my chest ache. This is what I wanted last night before everything went sideways—food, conversation, a night that didn’t feel like stepping through a minefield.
