His jaw flexes. He takes it, doesn’t argue. “You’re right.”
Silence folds in. I can hear the tiny hiss from the espresso machine being tested two rooms over, the slow tick of the HVAC kicking through a cycle.
“What do you want me to do differently,” he asks, “so I don’t make your job harder?”
The question is simple and disarms me. I lift my chin. “Don’t stand between me and anyone I’m managing. If I need you or anyone to cut in, I’ll give the signal.”
His eyes search my face, and I have to force myself not to squirm under his gaze. Then he gives a small tip of his head. “Noted.”
I reach for the box again. He gets there first, palm up. “May I?”
For a breath, I stare at his hand. His long fingers, his oddly callused palm for a lawyer. I step back andnod.
He reaches past me to pick the box up, and the shift brushes against my scarf. It slides down, just a whisper, and I feel the cool kiss of air on the skin he marked.
His gaze drops before I can pull the scarf back up. A flash of dark heat and possession sends a spark through me, landing squarely between my legs. His expression quickly shifts into shame, then his control snaps back into place. He looks away hard.
I catch the scarf and tug it up, fingers steady even if my stomach is doing flips. “It’ll heal,” I say, because pretending he didn’t see is worse.
His jaw works once. “It shouldn’t have been there to begin with.” It’s quiet and scolding. Not aimed at me, but at himself.
The words send a feeling of despair through me, and I can’t figure out why. The words play through my mind again, sending me into a feeling of despair I can’t explain.It shouldn’t have been there to begin with.
I don’t answer that. I can’t rewrite what happened last night, and I wouldn’t if I could. I step back to give him more room.
When he’s got the box in his hands, and we’re ready to go, I lead the way out of the room, then stop.
I turn back. “Roberto.”
He meets my eyes.
“I’m not sorry,”I say. “About what we did.”
I feel the words run through him. I can see it. His fingers flex once on the box, then loosen. His eyes darken the way a sky does when a cloud passes over. He takes a breath. “Neither am I,” he says and doesn’t elaborate.
Something inside me stops shaking.
Chapter Fourteen
Roberto
I take the back corridor that smells like garlic and onions, the one that leads straight into the kitchen. I could send a text and call Bianca to my office with the papers, but I like seeing her in her element. She belongs here. If I’m honest, I like seeing people where they belong.
It’s mid-morning, and the kitchen has that soft bustle I love. No tickets are firing yet. We’re not open for business. Right now, it’s just a simple kitchen.
Bianca is at the sauté station, sleeves rolled, a towel set just so, tasting spoons set out as usual. She moves with the grace of a world-class dancer, completely at home in the kitchen. She’s got something light and golden bubbling in a shallow pan, and she knows I’m here before I say a word.
“Hey,” she says without turning, voice bright. “You just figured out a way to steal my lunch, didn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I say, and she laughs because we both know I would ifshe told me I could.
I’ve had a soft spot for Bianca since the first time I saw her at her grandmother’s restaurant after the funeral. Not the same way as my brother does, seeing as they’re married with a kid now, but she makes every room she steps into more welcoming.
She turns then, and her eyes go warm in the way they only do for two people—my brother and their son. Gio walks in behind me, cradling Stephano like he’s a priceless jewel.
Gio looks like sleep’s been escaping him, but the love in his eyes more than makes up for it. The baby is wide-awake, dark eyes huge, little fists pumping like he’s swimming through air.
“Look who’s here, Stephano,” Gio says, grin crooked. “You get two for one today. Mama and Zio Roberto.”
