Chapter 9 Marco
Marco
I’m sitting at the kitchen island pretending to read emails while in actuality I’m listening to Jess read Ben a bedtime story upstairs.
The monitor is on low. Just audio. No video in bedrooms. That’s in the contract and also basic human decency.
Still, I can hear her voice. Soft. Patient. She’s doing character voices for some Italian folktale about a girl who befriends a fox. Ben giggles at something. The sound punches through my chest like a fist.
When was the last time Ben laughed during a bedtime story?
Months. At least.
Not even Matilda could do this. Maybe she wasn’t as good at her job as I thought.
Rosa left dinner in the warming drawer before heading home. Niamh is in her office off the mudroom doing whatever house managers do after hours. Probably scheduling my life down to the minute. She should really head home.
The house is quiet except for that monitor and my own thoughts, which are loud as hell and twice as useless.
Jess has been here one day. One day and she’s already dismantled Ben’s panic better than two years of therapy, eight months of Matilda, and my rigid-ass routines ever managed.
Brave Rules.
Frederick the goddamn snail.
Hand squeezes and breathing like it’s hot cocoa.
I watched it all happen this afternoon. Watched Jess pick up my daughter when she was spiraling. Watched her create something out of nothing. Watched Ben relax against her like she’d found something she didn’t know she needed.
And I felt it. That dangerous thing I’m not supposed to feel.
Relief. Gratitude.
Want.
Christ. Especially the want.
Because Jess in professional mode is somehow worse than Jess naked in my arms. She’s competent. Creative. She moves through my space like she belongs here, and my brain keeps supplying images of what that would look like permanently.
Her in my kitchen every morning. Her laugh filling these rooms. Her body in my bed instead of her going home every night to that shitbox apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.
Stop.
The monitor crackles. “Goodnight, piccola,” Jess says, using the nickname I use. My daughter’s nickname. And it sounds right in her mouth. Natural. Like she’s been saying it for years instead of hours.
I hear Ben’s sleepy response. “Goodnight. Frederick says goodnight, too.”
Then footsteps. The sound of Jess moving down the hall. Down the stairs.
I straighten. Pretend I wasn’t listening. Pull my laptop closer like I’m actually working instead of torture-refreshing the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes.
Jess appears in the kitchen doorway. She’s ditched the blazer from the contract signing.
Now it’s just a plain black t-shirt and jeans, but the way the cotton clings to her curves makes my hands itch.
Her hair is down, showcasing those soft waves I remember fisting while she rode me. While I made her orgasm four times.
Get it together, Fiore.
“She’s out,” Jess says. “Fully asleep. I thought it would take longer but she just shut down.”
“That’s unusual.” I close the laptop. Gesture to the stool across from me. “Want to debrief?”
She hesitates. Glances at the doorway like she’s calculating exit routes.
Smart girl.
But she sits.
Pulls out a small notebook from her back pocket.
The spiral binding is bent. The pages are dog-eared. It’s not some pristine planner. It’s a working document.
“Okay.” She flips it open. “So. First day observations.”
I watch her scan her notes. She bites her bottom lip while she reads. That lip I’ve tasted. That mouth I’ve claimed. I want to be the one doing the biting...
I force my eyes back to the notebook instead of imagining what else that mouth can do.
“School pickup was rough,” she starts. “Meltdown about Matilda. Counting to ten without breathing. That’s not actually helping her, by the way. The counting. It’s barely panic management.”
“Her therapist recommended it.”
“Her therapist is wrong.” She says it flatly. “Or maybe not wrong, but incomplete. She needs something that actually regulates her nervous system. That’s why I did the hand squeeze and the breathing.”
I lean forward. “Explain.”
“It’s grounding. Physical touch plus controlled breathing.
It interrupts the panic spiral.” She’s flipping pages now.
Showing me diagrams she sketched. Little stick figures doing hand squeezes.
“One-two-three gives her something to focus on. The breathing slows her heart rate. Together they signal to her brain that she’s safe. ”
This woman spent her first day creating a whole system. Drew pictures. Made notes. Thought about my daughter’s broken nervous system and figured out how to hack it.
Fuck.
“The cocoa thing?” I ask.
“Same principle. Smell is grounding. Steam makes her breathe slower. Plus it’s a ritual. She needs rituals.”
“She has rituals. Conchiglie al burro every morning. Apple slices after school. Bedtime story.”
“Those are routines,” Jess corrects. She looks up. Her eyes catch mine. “Rituals are different. They’re about connection. About feeling safe with another person. That’s what was missing.”
The words land heavy. Because she’s right. Fucking right.
I’ve been running Ben’s life like one of my kitchens. With precision. Control. No room for error.
But I forgot the part where she needs to feel connected. Where routines aren’t enough if they’re empty.
“The Frederick thing was genius,” I say, because I need to say something and that’s the safest option.
She smiles. It’s small but real. “I got lucky. She likes snails.”
“You did research.”
“I asked Ethan. He told me about the shell collection.”
Right. Ethan. Her brother. My best friend.
The guy who has no idea I fucked his sister and then hired her and am currently sitting here trying not to imagine doing it again.
This is such a bad idea.
Jess is still talking. Something about transition plans. How we should prep Ben about what to expect. I’m nodding along but I’m not really hearing it because she’s leaning over the notebook now and her shirt dips and I can see the edge of her bra.
Black. Definitely lace this time. Not the cotton from her apartment.
My fingers curl against the counter. I remember that bra. Remember peeling it off her. Remember the weight of her breasts in my hands. How her nipples peaked when I sucked them. How she arched into my mouth begging for more.
Jesus Christ.
“Marco?”
I blink. She’s watching me. Those warm brown eyes that see too much.
“Sorry. What?”
“I said we should keep the Brave Rules consistent. Same squeeze pattern. Same breathing count. So she can use them anywhere.”
“Right. Yes. Good plan.”
We’re both leaning over the notebook now. Closer than we need to be. Close enough that I can smell her. Lavender and something sweet. Close enough to see the pulse in her throat. Close enough to remember exactly how that skin tastes.
The room shrinks. Or maybe we’re just moving closer. I’m not sure which.
Her shoulder brushes mine. Just barely. But I feel it everywhere.
My pants are way too fucking tight. My cock is straining against my zipper, yearning to break free.
She’s looking at me now instead of the notebook. Her lips part slightly. I watch it happen in slow motion. The soft inhale. The way her pupils dilate.
I could kiss her right now. Just lean in. Close the distance. Taste her again.
My hand moves. Reaches for her face. Her breath hitches.
Do it.
Fuck the contract.
A cough. Sharp. Deliberate.
We both jerk back so hard it’s almost funny. Except nothing about this is funny.
Niamh is in the doorway. Her expression is neutral but her eyes are knowing. “Apologies. Just doing final rounds. Everything locked down for the night?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out rougher than it should. “All set.”
“Excellent.” She doesn’t move. Just stands there like a human chaperone. “Jess, do you need Jag to drive you home?”
Translation: time to leave before you do something stupid.
Jess stands. Closes her notebook. “That would be great. Thanks.”
She’s not looking at me. Good. Because I’m not sure what my face is doing right now. Probably something that would violate about six clauses in that contract we just signed. And then there’s my pants...
I shift, trying to hide my bulging erection from the two of them.
God, why did I have to pick the tight pants today?
“Tomorrow,” I manage. “Same time?”
“Same time.” She finally glances at me. Something flickers in her expression. I think it’s relief. “Goodnight, Marco.”
“Goodnight.”
She leaves. Niamh follows. I hear the front door open and close. Hear the Range Rover start up outside.
Then I’m alone in my kitchen with a hard-on and a guilty conscience and Isotta’s mixing bowl still sitting on that shelf like an accusation.
What the fuck am I doing?
I need to move. Burn off this energy before I do something catastrophically stupid like follow Jess home and violate that fraternization clause seventeen different ways.
On her first fucking day.
I remind myself that she worked wonders with Ben.
I can’t mess this up.
Can’t afford to lose her.
Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Open mat tonight. Ethan will be there.
Perfect.
I can roll hard and pretend I’m not thinking about his sister. Pretend I’m not counting the hours until she’s back here tomorrow. Pretend this whole thing isn’t a disaster waiting to detonate.
But first...
I pull out my phone and text Niamh.
Starting next week: I want Jess as primary pickup after school. I’ll do Thursdays and Fridays. Need to transition Ben gradually.
Her response is immediate: Good call. Ben trusts her already.
Ben trusts her already.
After one day.
It took Matilda three weeks to get Ben calm at pickup.
Took me six months after Isotta died.
Jess did it in one afternoon with a stuffed snail and some breathing exercises.
The math is simple. Ben needs Jess more than she needs me hovering at three thirty every day. And I need to stop treating every separation like abandonment.
Even if it feels like it.