Chapter 12 Jess
Jess
I’m standing in Marco’s home office pitching an idea that’s either brilliant or completely delusional.
“So,” I say, gripping my notebook like it’s a life jacket. “I have a proposal.”
Marco’s behind his desk, all six-two of controlled intensity in a tight black henley that makes his muscles bulge in all the right places.
His dark eyes are locked on me and I’m trying very hard not to think about how those hands currently folded over the desk felt gripping my waist not all that long ago.
When your boss looks like a Roman statue but you’re contractually obligated to keep your hands to yourself... a contract that you yourself insisted on...
“I’m listening.” His voice is low, and gravelly, and I just know I’m going to have to change my underwear after this.
Professional, Jess. Be professional.
I flip open my notebook, grateful for something to do with my hands. “Family Meal Mondays. A private cooking program for community families. Not public. Just a space where kids, anxious or otherwise, can learn cooking. It’s part of... part of what I’ve been calling... Brave Kitchen.”
He leans forward slightly. “Brave Kitchen?”
“Yeah.” I flip to my notes, showing him the bullet points I’ve been building. “Mindful cooking for anxious kids.”
Marco cocks an eyebrow.
Dang, why did I have to use the word cock to describe his eyebrow!
I swallow quickly, trying to focus. “We can start with FHG staff families, and expand it out into the broader community later.”
He leans back. Those chef’s hands steeple under his chin. I watch the movement and my eyes involuntarily drop to his groin...
Stop it.
I force myself to meet his gaze.
“Walk me through it,” he says.
I launch into the pitch I’ve been rehearsing for three days. How we’d use the FHG test kitchen after hours. How I’d run the curriculum separate from my nanny duties. How kids would learn the same Brave Rules I use with Ben but through food.
“It would help any kid learn how to work off anxiety. Breath work while stirring. Counting while whisking. The one-two-three squeeze when timers go off.” I’m talking with my hands now, animated.
“Make the kitchen a safe space for kids instead of a stress space. Well, for those kids that don’t cook, anyway, I suppose. ..”
Marco’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. It makes my face go hot.
“You’ve been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you?” he observes.
“I think about a lot of things.” Like your mouth. And whether I’ll ever get to taste it again, despite what the contract says...
My face is definitely red now.
He stands. Crosses to the window overlooking the herb garden. The afternoon light catches in his dark hair and I have to physically stop myself from imagining running my fingers through it.
“Who would attend?” he asks.
“Like I said, FHG staff families first. Then maybe school referrals if the counselor signs off. Small groups. Six kids max.” I flip to my notes. “Ethan also offered to do a five minute CPR and Heimlich demo for parents. You know, since he’s a paramedic and all.”
Marco turns. There’s something in his eyes that looks almost like pride. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“I had time.”
Between obsessing over our one night stand and trying not to combust every time you’re in the same room.
He moves back to the desk. Picks up his phone. Starts texting rapid fire. “I’m looping in Rahul for accounting. Elena for the contract piece. This needs clean lanes.”
Wait.
I blink. “You’re saying yes?”
“I’m saying yes.” He looks up. “On one condition.”
Oh no. Here it comes. The catch. There’s always a catch with billionaires.
“What condition?” I ask cautiously.
“You own it. Brave Kitchen is yours. Separate from the nanny contract. Your intellectual property. If you ever want to take it public, that’s your call. But FHG doesn’t touch it.”
I blink again, confused. “You’re giving me full ownership?”
“It’s your idea. Your curriculum. Your work.” He’s still holding my gaze. “I’m just providing space and funding.”
Something in my chest cracks. This man is literally handing me a business on a silver platter and asking for nothing in return. No strings attached.
When your billionaire boss is secretly a decent human being and now you’re extra screwed because you already wanted to climb him and this just made it worse.
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally tell him.
“Say you’ll do it right.” His voice drops lower. “No cutting corners. No posting for metrics. This is about the kids. Not some algorithm.”
And there it is. He gets it. He actually gets it.
My eyes are stinging. I will not cry in this man’s office. I will not.
“Deal,” I manage.
His phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. He glances at the screen. “Elena’s drafting the addendum. Rahul’s setting up the accounting code. André and Matteo are blocking the space.”
“Right now? You’re doing all this right now?”
“No reason to wait.” He looks at me, eyes assessing. “Unless you need more time?”
“No. I’m ready.” I am so not ready but we’re doing this apparently.
Another buzz. He reads the message and his mouth twists into his usual almost-smile. “André suggests inviting the school counselor and a PTA vice-chair to observe. Low key. You know, the whole values alignment thing.”
PTA. Parent Teacher Association. School politics.
My chest tightens. “Not for the first night.”
“Works for me.” He sets the phone down. “First pilot is just us. We iron out the kinks before anyone official shows up.”
The relief is immediate. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Elena’s contract is going to be thorough. The usual rules. No kids in any videos, no FHQ interiors, etc.” He pulls up something on his laptop. Gestures for me to come around the desk.
I move closer.
Too close.
I can smell him. Bitter orange and espresso and that cedar scent that’s been living in my brain since our night together.
The laptop screen shows a number.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Yours compensation,” he replies. “It will be separate from your nanny duties. Paid per session.”
The number is generous. Like, really generous. More than I would’ve asked for.
“This is too much,” I say.
“It’s market rate for curriculum development and instruction.”
“Marco.” I turn to look at him and realize that was a mistake because now we’re face to face, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
Abort abort abort.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Just for a second. Then back up.
The air between us goes electric.
“Jess.” My name in that low voice is absolutely unfair.
I should step back. Should put professional distance between us.
Instead I hear myself ask, “What’s the metric?”
He blinks. The spell breaks. “What?”
“For success. How do we measure if this is working?” My brain is back online.
Thank God.
“Views don’t matter,” I continue. “Followers don’t matter. So what is the metric that matters?”
Marco considers this. His jaw works like he’s choosing words carefully. “Let’s say... Ben’s meltdown recovery time. If we can track shorter latency to calm across her and multiple kids, that’s success. Assuming we can find any other kids among staff families with her anxiety levels.”
“So... not views.”
“Never views.” He says it with such conviction I almost believe my influencer days didn’t matter. “You taught me that. Remember? You can’t schedule joy.”
The callback to pizza night hits different. I remember that conversation. The way he admitted he was wrong about mess and control.
“Okay,” I say. “Recovery time it is.”
He taps his lower lip. “One more thing. Are you planning on posting about this? Eventually?”
I think about my dead Instagram. My silent TikTok. My defunct YouTube. The metrics that used to define my worth.
“Not yet,” I answer honestly. “Maybe never. I don’t know.”
“That’s fair.” He looks at me. “But if you do, it’s your call. Not mine. This is yours, Jess. Your work. Your choice.”
Something in the way he says it makes my throat tighten. Like he actually sees me. Not the failed influencer. Not the nanny.
Just... me.
“Thank you.” It comes out whisper-soft.
We’re staring at each other again. His eyes are doing that thing where they’re too intense and I can feel my pulse in my throat.
Then his expression shifts. Goes careful. Guarded.
“Ben’s meltdowns,” he says quietly. “They started when her mother died.”
Oh.
“Marco, you don’t have to—”
“She feels alone.” His voice cracks just slightly. “Even though she has me. Matilda helped. But she was never enough. No one ever is. She’s afraid... afraid one day she’ll come home, and I’ll be gone, too.”
The raw honesty punches through my chest. This man who controls everything just admitted he can’t fix his daughter’s grief.
“You’re enough,” I tell him. “You’re doing everything right.”
“Am I?” He laughs but there’s no humor in it. “I thought routines would save her. Structure. Control. But you taught her to breathe the first day. The first day, Jess. And I’ve been failing her for two fucking years.”
“That’s not true.” I want to touch him. Want to close the distance and prove he’s not alone either.
But the contract. The rules. Ethan. All of it.
So instead I just say, “Ben knows you love her. That’s what matters.”
“So, tonight,” he’ says crisply. He’s already moving on, back to business mode. “Knife safety demo in the carriage house. Ben and two staff kids. Quick session. I need you to record it. Ninety seconds max. Internal use only. No faces. No posting.”
My brain scrambles to catch up. “Why the carriage house?”
“No filming in the main house. Ever.” He says it like a law. “Studio space keeps everything contained.”
Right. Boundaries.
“Six thirty. After dinner.”
His phone buzzes again. He glances at it. “Elena’s ready for your review. I’ll forward it.”
“That was quick... great, I’ll, um.” I gesture vaguely toward the door. “I should check on Ben. Homework time.”
“Right. Yes.” But he doesn’t move and neither do I.
We’re both just standing here like idiots.