“I’m not fine.” My voice goes high in a way I hate. “I’m very much not fine. I have meetings, and deliveries toconfirm, and—”
“You’re fine,” he repeats, running those soothing hands down my back and up again. Still not letting me up.
I try to turn my head to look at him. “What do—”
“I’m the boss, remember?” he says, mildly.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t just not show up,” I say, but his hands are doing the trick. I want to push up again, but can’t seem to find the energy. “We open in less than a week. Less than a week, Roberto. I can’t skip a day because I—” I search for the right word. “Because we.”
“I didn’t say skip,” he says. “I said you’re fine.”
“You’re doing that lawyer thing where your words mean something else,” I accuse.
“I am,” he says without shame. “And I meant what I said. I’ve already handled your morning.”
My mouth falls open. “Handled how?”
“I texted Caterina,” he says, deadpan.
“You texted— You texted Caterina?” Those words have me pushing against his hands again, imagining that conversation. But, again, I’m not successful, so I settle for: “You did not.”
“I did,” he says. “I told her you called me and you’re working off-site today. I told her you needed a quiet day to run confirmations and final proofs and to build the floor schedule for opening week without an army of well-meaning people interrupting you every twelve minutes.”
I blink. “You said it like that?”
“More or less,” he says. “She agreed it was sensible.”
I squint, trying to imagine Caterina saying those words. “Did she?”
“She did,” he says, and continues his work on my back. “She said to send her the final VIP seating chart by 3:00.”
I relax into the pillow with a groan. “I knew there’d be a catch.”
“There’s always a catch,” he says, amused. “But a manageable one.”
My brain reorders itself around the new information, annoyed and relieved in equal measure. “I still have to work,” I say, not quite willing to trust this version of reality.
“You’re going to,” he says.
“In your bed?” I ask, because if I don’t make a joke I might do something more dramatic like cry.
“We brought your work home, remember?” he says. Vaguely. The end of the night is a bit of a blur. “You’re free to set up wherever you want. The dining table. The office. The couch. The bed, if you wish. But I’m not leaving you alone today.”
The last sentence is gentle and absolute. It slides into me like warmth. It also triggers every reflex I have about independence.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I say carefully.
“I know,” he says. “I don’t wantto leave you alone.”
The phrasing changes the terrain. Not obligation. Choice.
“Why?” I ask, and I hate that it comes out small.
“Because last night was a lot,” he says simply. “Because the morning after is sometimes worse when your thoughts quiet.”
Something tender rolls through my chest. “I’m not going to fall apart,” I say, even though the possibility is not as remote as I’d like.
“I know,” he says. “But if you do, you won’t be alone in it.”
