Chapter 12 Jess #2
Finally I force myself to step back. To break whatever invisible thing is pulling us together.
“See you at six thirty,” I say.
“Six thirty.” He repeats.
I leave before I do something supremely stupid. Like kiss him. Or combust. Or both.
Six thirty arrives way too fast.
I’m standing outside the carriage house with my phone, watching Marco unlock the door while three kids bounce around like pinballs. Ben’s clutching Frederick. The other two are staff kids I recognize from family events. A boy around seven and a girl maybe six.
“Remember the rules,” Marco says, flipping on the lights. “We watch. We listen. We don’t touch until I say.”
The space is gorgeous. All butcher block and copper pots and that chef energy Marco radiates when he’s in his element. The kind of energy that makes my stomach do the butterfly.
When your boss transforms into a cooking show host and suddenly you understand why people thirst over chefs.
Stop it.
He pulls out three nylon knives. Bright colors. Completely safe.
The kids lean in.
“These are practice knives,” Marco explains. His voice has gone into teaching mode. “Before we use real knives, we learn the right way.”
I hold up my phone. Frame the shot so it’s just hands and cutting board. No faces. No identifiable features. Just the demonstration.
Marco’s hands move with precision. “Claw grip. See? Fingers tucked. Knuckles forward.”
The kids mirror him. Ben’s tongue pokes out in concentration.
“Good, piccola. Just like that.”
He guides them through carrot coins. Cucumber slices. The movements are slow. Deliberate. And watching his hands work does absolutely nothing for my ability to remain professional.
Those hands.
Those fingers.
Oh yes, I know exactly what they can do.
An image of multiple orgasms flashes through my mind.
My face grows hot.
Focus!
I adjust my angle and keep filming.
Ninety seconds later, I have the clip. Marco inspects it, nods approval, and dismisses the other kids. They scatter, racing back to the main house. Ben stays behind to help clean up.
“You did great, sweetie,” I tell her, pocketing my phone.
“I didn’t cut myself even once!” She’s beaming.
“That’s because you listened.” Marco’s wiping down the butcher block. “Which is good. Remember: always listen before you touch.”
We clean together. The three of us move around the small space in surprising harmony.
Ben chatters about Frederick needing to learn knife safety, too. Marco plays along with complete sincerity.
I’m loading tools into the sanitizer when Marco says, “Jess. Come back after Ben’s asleep. Quick debrief.”
My hands freeze. “Tonight?”
“Two minutes. Just need to confirm the Family Meal contract details.” His voice is casual but his eyes aren’t. No siree... those dark eyes are doing that thing where they see far too much. Want far too much.
Two minutes alone with Marco in the carriage house after dark...
I remember the rules from the contract. The ones I literally helped write.
Debriefs in common areas only. Kitchen, mudroom, office. Doors open. Another adult on premises.
The carriage house is none of those things.
And we’ll definitely be alone.
And I’m pretty sure Elena Park would have my head on a spike if she knew I was even considering this.
This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing could possibly go wrong.
My face is burning. But I finally blurt out: “Sounds good.”
Bedtime takes forever.
Ben wants three stories instead of one. Wants to practice her hand squeezes. Wants to know if Frederick can sleep in the middle instead of the side.
Finally, mercifully, she’s out.
I stand in her doorway watching her breathe. Curls spread across the pillow. One small hand clutching the plush snail.
You’re stalling, Riley.
I am absolutely stalling.
Because going back to that carriage house feels dangerous. Feels like playing with fire. Feels like I should definitely change my underwear first because it’s already a lost cause and I haven’t even seen him yet.
In the hallway I press my back against the wall and count breaths.
One. Two. Three.
When you know it’s a terrible idea but your body has other plans.
I check my reflection in the hallway mirror. Hair’s a mess. Face is flushed. I look like I’ve been running laps.
Or thinking about sex.
Definitely thinking about sex.
I smooth my hair. Take three measured breaths. Remind myself this is just a two-minute debrief about contract details.
Professional.
Appropriate.
Absolutely nothing is going to happen.
I cross the courtyard. The carriage house windows glow warm in the darkness. I can see Marco’s silhouette moving inside.
My pulse kicks up.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I knock. The door opens immediately.
Marco’s ditched the henley. Now he’s in a white t-shirt that’s somehow worse because I can see the definition of his shoulders and chest in even more detail. Not to mention those powerful biceps that held me while I fell apart.
“Hey.” His voice is rougher than it was earlier.
“Hey.” Mine is breathier than it should be.
We’re both just standing there like idiots.
“Come in,” he says finally.
I step inside. The space smells like him.
Oh god I just want to press my face against his neck.
Abort mission. Abort.
He closes the door behind me.
The click of the latch is obscenely loud.
“So.” I clutch my phone like a shield. “Contract stuff?”
“Right. Yes.” But he’s not moving toward the laptop on the counter. He’s just looking at me with an expression that makes my knees weak. “Elena needs your signature by tomorrow. I can forward the final version tonight.”
“Great. Perfect.” My voice is too high. “Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
Neither of us moves.
The air between us is thick enough to cut with one of those colorful practice knives of his.
“Jess.” He takes a step closer.
“Marco.” I should step back. Should maintain professional distance.
I don’t.
“This is a bad idea,” he says.
“The worst.” I agree.
“The contract explicitly states no fraternization.”
“Very explicitly.”
“And Ethan would kill me.”
“Slowly. With his bare hands.”
We’re inches apart now. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Close enough to see his pupils dilate.
“We should stop,” Marco murmurs.
“Definitely should stop,” I agree.
His hand comes up. Cups my face. That rough palm against my cheek sending electricity straight through my nervous system.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.
Instead I grab his shirt and pull him down.
Our mouths crash together and it’s nothing like our first kiss. This one is desperate. Hungry. Two weeks of restraint detonating in the space of a heartbeat.
His hands are in my hair. Mine are under his shirt. We’re stumbling backward until my spine hits the butcher block.
“Fuck,” he growls against my mouth. “Fuck, Jess.”
“Bad idea,” I gasp between kisses. “Such a bad idea.”
“Terrible.” His teeth graze my neck and I nearly come apart right there.
This is happening.
This is actually happening.
And I have absolutely no intention of stopping it.