Chapter 1 #2
Then he puts his phone back in his jean pocket without a word, his mouth doing this thing where it’s not quite a smile but it’s definitely not not a smile.
“Good old Jess,” Ethan announces, returning from the bathroom with perfect terrible timing. He slides onto the stool on Marco’s other side, leaving Marco between us like some very attractive sandwich filling. “AirDropping the world.”
“You saw that?” I ask.
“I got it on my phone again as I was walking back,” he replies.
“It was an accident,” I protest.
“It’s always an accident with you.”
Marco’s phone buzzes with a text. He pulls it out, glances at it, and that almost-smile becomes a real one.
He shows me the screen.
Jag: Target aware of codename.
“Who’s Jag?” I ask, because apparently we’re doing this now. You know, the thing where I’ve already humiliated myself so thoroughly that there’s no point in pretending I have any dignity left.
“My head of security,” Marco says, like that’s a thing normal people have.
“You bought your security to a bar?” But of course he does. Someone of his status brings security everywhere.
I glance around, trying to spot whoever Jag is. There’s a guy sitting alone near the door, nursing a beer and very carefully not looking at us. He’s built like he could bench-press a car, with the kind of alert stillness that screams “ex special ops.”
I’ve seen him before, I realize. With Ethan and Marco. Just never put two and two together.
“Well,” I say, committing to the bit because what else can I do. “The meme... it’s accurate branding.”
Marco laughs. It’s low, and just a brief little snicker.
But it counts.
The bartender arrives with our drinks. Ethan ordered for all of us. Whiskey for him, some craft IPA for Marco, and a Moscow Mule for me because my brother actually pays attention.
I shove my empty beer mug aside, and wrap my fingers around the Mule. Then I pause.
“This round’s on me,” I announce, pulling out my card with probably too much force. Because I need to establish that I’m independent and capable and absolutely not the kind of person who needs a billionaire to buy her drinks.
I hand over my card.
The bartender swipes it.
Swipes it again.
“Um,” she says, and I already know. I can feel it coming like a freight train. “It’s declining.”
“That’s impossible,” I lie, my face becoming hot all over again. It’s not impossible.
Actually, it’s extremely possible.
It’s basically guaranteed given my current financial situation.
Why oh why do I keep embarrassing myself? In front of him of all people?
Worst night of my life.
“Try it again?” I suggest weakly.
She tries it again.
Same result.
I have that extra special full-body flush reserved for situations like this.
“I’ve got it,” Marco says, already pulling out his phone. Apple Pay. Of course.
“No, I can—”
The transaction goes through before I can finish my protest.
Ethan pats my shoulder reassuringly. “Your card probably just needs to be reset.”
We all know that’s not true, but I appreciate the attempt.
“I’m paying you back right now,” I tell Marco stubbornly, already pulling up Venmo on my phone. Because I absolutely cannot be in debt to this man.
Or that’s what I tell myself in the moment.
Yes, did I mention I was stubborn?
I get his personal phone number, add him as a contact. Then launch VenMo and find his contact.
Type in the amount.
$69.00.
I hit send before I see it.
The notification pops up. “You paid Marco Fiore $69.00.”
Oh my God.
Again?
Why, universe, why?
Sixty-nine. I Venmo’d him sixty-nine dollars.
Marco’s phone buzzes. He looks at it. Looks at me.
His eyebrows go up.
Then he sends money back. Twenty dollars.
The memo reads: “Service charge waived.”
And he winks.
He actually winks at me.
After that.
Spontaneous human combustion is about to become scientific fact because I’m literally burning alive from embarrassment.
Ethan, bless him, jumps in with some story about a call he took last week, redirecting the conversation away from my spectacular implosion.
Marco looks away from me and engages, asking questions about protocols and equipment, and I sit there nursing my Moscow Mule and trying to remember how to be a normal person.
Thirty minutes pass. They talk shop. Paramedic stuff, restaurant stuff, some Jiu-Jitsu tournament coming up. I try to follow along. Ethan tries to loop me in here and there, but I’m too self-conscious to contribute much beyond nods and the occasional “that’s wild.”
I’m actually thankful to be a third wheel for once.
Still, I can’t help but enjoy Marco’s presence.
He’s close enough that I can smell him. The same cologne I remember from Vegas.
Bitter orange and espresso and something else I can’t quite place.
Cedar maybe. It’s the kind of scent that makes you want to lean in closer, which is extremely inconvenient given the situation.
Also, he has really nice hands. Long fingers, calluses on the fingertips from years of chef work. They’re expressive when he talks, cutting through the air to make a point, then settling back on the bar with easy confidence.
Hook: “When your brother’s hot friend has hands that make you think of what they can do with your pussy.”
Immediate platform ban.
Worth it.
I take a long drink of my Moscow Mule and try to focus on literally anything else.
There’s a lull in the conversation. Marco turns to me, and those dark eyes settle on my face, and I feel it like a physical touch.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he says.
“Just enjoying the show,” I deflect, gesturing at them. “You two are like a podcast I didn’t subscribe to.”
Ethan snorts. “She means we’re boring.”
“I mean you’re very engaging,” I correct. “Very... engaged. In engagement.”
Smooth, Jess. Very smooth.
“She’s saying we might as well be married,” Ethan quips.
Marco’s mouth twitches. His eyes never leave mine. “What would you rather talk about?”
“Um.” My mind goes blank. Completely empty. Not a single thought. “Is there a cocktail called ‘gainfully employed’?”
“Off menu,” Marco says without missing a beat. “Very bitter.”
Okay. Okay, he’s funny. That’s not fair. Hot billionaire widowers aren’t supposed to be funny. That’s against the rules.
“I should probably stop self-deprecating about my career implosion,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone.
“You should,” Marco agrees. “From what Ethan’s told me, you built something impressive. Algorithms change. Doesn’t mean you weren’t good at it.”
I blink at him. That’s... surprisingly generous coming from someone who probably thinks TikTok and Youtube are something teenagers do. “You know about the whole influencer thing?”
“Ethan mentions you. Often.”
“Oh God. What has he said?”
“That you’re funny. Creative. Stubborn as hell.” Marco’s mouth does that almost-smile thing again. “And that you hide when you’re scared.”
Wow. Okay. Ethan is getting murdered later.
Straight up Fratricide.
“I don’t hide,” I protest weakly.
“You climbed out a restaurant window.”
“Ground floor window. And that was strategic.”
This is it. The moment where I should be normal and mature and have an actual adult conversation without making it weird.
Instead, my mind goes blank and I hear myself say: “Uh. Marco, sono bagnata. Grazie. Uh. A tutti. No. Uh.”
Marco’s eyebrows go up again. “You’re... wet? Already? And thanks to everyone?”
“I hate myself,” I announce to the bar at large.
Ethan is losing it. Full-on laughing, the kind where he has to put his drink down so he doesn’t spill it.
“She minored in Duolingo,” he manages between laughs. “Majored in oversharing.”
Ethan stands, claps my shoulder, and still grinning says: “I’m clocking out before she starts conjugating. Text me if either of you need me.”
And then he leaves.
He just leaves me here.
With Marco.
Alone.
I stand up fast enough to make myself dizzy. “Well I should go, too.”
“No, stay.” Marco’s voice is quiet but firm. And slow. Really, really, slow. “I insist.”
“I don’t know...”
“You can’t leave me hanging so soon. Please.” He gestures at my mug. “Would you prefer we sit somewhere quieter?”
There’s something in his eyes. Not pity. Not amusement, though there’s a trace of that. Something else. Something that looks almost like... interest?
No. I’m projecting. Definitely projecting.
But then I remember the wink. The “year-round” comment. The way he saved the meme.
“Only if there’s a phone that doesn’t accept AirDrops,” I hear myself say. “And we don’t speak Italian.”
Marco stands, and God, I’m overwhelmed by how tall he is again. Six-two of well-dressed danger standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“I can promise you that I want many more of those AirDrops of yours,” he says, and the way he says it makes it sound like he’s talking about something else entirely. Low, steady, with a vibration that I can almost feel rattling in my chest.
Then he adds, “But I can’t promise I won’t speak Italian.”
I smile despite myself. Despite everything. “Well in that case...”
I offer him my elbow, mimicking some old-fashioned gesture, expecting him to laugh it off.
Instead, he slides his hand into the crook of my arm like a gentleman from another century. His palm is warm against my skin, and I’m suddenly very aware of every point of contact between us.
“Lead the way,” he says.
So I do. Over his shoulder, he orders us another round. Another IPA for him, and a second Mule for me.
I don’t let myself think about how this is probably a terrible idea, or how he’s my brother’s best friend, or how the last time we were alone together we were under the influence of drugs.
I just walk, with his hand on my arm, toward the closest quiet corner.
Because why not?
Hook: “When you know it’s a bad idea but you do it anyway.”
Cut to me, walking into the fire.
Would’ve gone viral. Definitely would’ve gone viral.
But I’m not making content anymore.
I’m living it.