Page 33 of Bad Men's Good Girl

"You show her beauty she didn't know existed," Max finishes. "I've seen the photos she takes when she's with you. They're completely different from her usual snapshots."

The accuracy of his observation catches me off guard. "You pay attention to her photography?"

"I pay attention to everything about her." Max's honesty is disarming. "Which is precisely the problem. I'm forty years old, Atticus. I've built a career on measured decisions and careful planning. But when I think about her leaving in a few weeks, I feel like I'm drowning."

The admission hangs between us, raw and unguarded. I recognize the fear in his voice because it mirrors my own—the terrifying realization that someone has slipped past all my carefully constructed defenses.

"I've spent fifteen years practicing the art of temporary," I say quietly. "Temporary assignments, temporary apartments, temporary connections. Everything designed to end cleanly."

"But not her."

"Not her." The words feel like a confession. "And that scares the hell out of me."

"What if we stopped thinking about this as a competition?" I hear myself saying before I've fully processed the thought. "What if we approached it like... collaborative journalism?"

Max turns from the window, eyebrow raised. "Meaning?"

"I've covered stories where the best outcome required multiple perspectives working together instead of against each other." I lean back against the wall, the idea gaining momentum as I speak. "What if Baleigh doesn't have to choose between us?"

"Atticus." Max's tone carries a warning. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting we consider the possibility that conventional relationship structures might not apply here." The words feel radical even as I say them. "She brings out different aspects of who we are. Maybe we bring out different aspects of who she is."

Max studies my face with the intensity he usually reserves for analyzing historical documents. "You're talking about polyamory."

"I'm talking about honesty." I push off from the wall, pacing the small space. "Instead of pretending we don't all care about her, instead of forcing her into an impossible choice that will hurt everyone involved, what if we acknowledged that this situation is unprecedented?"

"And completely impractical." But Max doesn't sound dismissive. He sounds like he's actually considering it. "The logistics alone?—"

"Are Amos's specialty." I pause mid-step. "He's spent years coordinating complex international programs. If anyone could figure out how to make something unconventional work, it's him."

"You want to propose this to Amos?" Max's voice climbs slightly. "The man who's currently downstairs with Baleigh, probably falling deeper by the minute?"

"The man who's been watching us watch her with the same expression we probably wear when we watch him with her." I move back to the window, noting the empty courtyard. "He's not stupid, Max. He knows what's happening here."

Silence stretches between us while Max processes this. I can practically hear his academic mind working through the implications, weighing variables, considering precedents.

"It would require complete transparency," he says finally. "No hidden agendas, no territorial behavior."

"And it would require her consent, obviously." I turn back to face him. "She'd have to want this too. All of it. All of us."

"She's spent her entire life choosing the safe path," Max points out. "This is about as far from safe as it gets."

"Which is exactly why it might appeal to her." I think about Baleigh's growing confidence, her willingness to try new experiences. "She came to Italy to stop playing it safe."

Max walks to my desk, picking up one of the photos I took of Baleigh at the Ponte Vecchio. In it, she's laughing at something off-camera, completely unguarded, radiant with joy.

"She deserves to be happy," he says quietly. "All the way happy, not settling for partial happiness because society says she has to choose."

"Exactly." Relief floods through me at his understanding. "The question is whether we're brave enough to offer her that choice."

21

BALEIGH

Rome doesn't breathe; it vibrates. By ten in the morning, the heat already bakes the travertine fountains and the scent of diesel and roasted espresso climbs into the office windows. I lean over a spreadsheet, ticking off names as the three-day Rome excursion hits its stride.

"Group A is at the Capitoline," I murmur, sliding a highlighter over the paper. "Group B is doing the catacombs. Everyone’s accounted for."