Chapter 14 Jess
Jess
I’m standing in Ben’s Corner at FHG headquarters trying very hard not to think about Marco’s hands.
Or his mouth.
Or his cock.
Or—
Stop it!
You have a job to do.
A job that does NOT involve replaying your boss railing you into next Wednesday.
I adjust the laminated “Smell-Sip-Say” cards for the third time. They don’t need adjusting. They’re perfect. But my hands need something to do besides remember what it felt like when Marco’s fingers were inside me.
My face floods with heat.
Thank God no one’s here yet.
Ben’s Corner is actually adorable. Kid-height stools arranged in a semicircle. A bowl of citrus fruits for zesting and counting bubbles. Safety scissors and practice knives in color-coded bins. Everything at the perfect height for small hands to reach without climbing or asking for help.
Lucy Hammond-Blackwell breezes in carrying a clipboard and radiating that effortless philanthropy energy only billionaire wives seem to possess, though she’s a successful CEO in her own right.
She’s dressed like she just came from brunch at some place where the mimosas cost forty dollars and they call them “sparkling wellness elixirs.” I know her through Tatiana, who used to work for her husband.
“Jess!” She gives me a quick hug. “This space is gorgeous. You did all this?”
“Marco’s team did the setup. I just, you know, pointed at things and said ‘put that there.’” I gesture vaguely.
She laughs. It’s genuine, not the polite kind. “Don’t sell yourself short. The curriculum is all you. Christopher showed me your proposal. It’s brilliant.”
Christopher. Her tech CEO husband. Right. Because of course billionaires share my curriculum proposals over breakfast or whatever.
When your side hustle becomes boardroom conversation and you’re still not sure if you’re qualified to teach anything.
“Thanks,” I manage. “That means a lot.”
Lucy starts distributing her micro-grant envelopes at the check-in table. Each family gets a small stipend for groceries, no questions asked. It’s the kind of generosity that makes me simultaneously grateful and uncomfortable because I used to be the person who needed the envelope.
Still might be, if I’m honest.
The main door opens and Sabrina Taylor-Maxwell walks in with her usual efficient energy. She’s carrying Mia Grace on her hip, and the twins Jamie and Theo are holding hands behind her like tiny matching bodyguards.
“Jess.” Sabrina nods at me, then immediately moves to tape a hand-written note by the entrance:
Tonight is about connection, not content.
Cook. Laugh. Be present.
No filming. No kid faces. No posting.
— Values over visibility
I stare at those words and feel something crack in my chest.
Values over visibility.
That used to be my nightmare. The thing that killed my career. The algorithm didn’t care about my values. It cared about views and engagement and whether I could make people stop scrolling. It prioritized slop over value.
And now we have this printed on cardstock and taped to a wall like a mission statement.
“You good?” Sabrina asks, catching my expression.
“Yeah.” I blink hard. “Just, that note. It’s perfect. You’re a breath of fresh air.”
“It’s true.” She adjusts Mia on her hip. “I spent years chasing metrics for other people. Never again. This work you’re doing? It matters more than any viral moment ever could.”
Before I can respond, families start arriving.
Staff members from Marco’s restaurants, mostly.
A line cook from Osteria Fiore with her seven-year-old son.
André from front-of-house with his niece.
Matteo the culinary director with his daughter who’s maybe six and already has opinions about proper knife technique.
And then there’s Ethan, my ridiculous brother, carrying a bright red duffel bag and grinning like he’s about to perform surgery in the middle of a cooking class.
“Where do you want me?” he asks.
“Literally anywhere that’s not in my way,” I reply.
He laughs and sets up in the corner, pulling out a CPR dummy and an adult-sized choking vest. “Five minutes, I promise. Then you can have your kitchen back.”
Marco appears in the doorway.
And my entire nervous system forgets how to function.
He’s in a black Henley. Again. Does he own anything else?
The fabric stretches across his shoulders and chest in a way that should be banned in professional settings.
His dark hair is slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it.
Those hands that were all over me forty-eight hours ago.
Stop staring at his hands, Jess.
Stop thinking about his hands.
Definitely stop remembering what those hands did to your—
Our eyes meet across the room.
His expression doesn’t change. Completely neutral. Professional. But something in his gaze makes my stomach flip and my face burn and my underwear situation immediately become a problem.
He nods once. Then moves to check on Ben, who’s already at a station with Frederick propped beside her cutting board.
I force myself to focus.
“Okay everyone!” My voice comes out surprisingly steady. “Welcome to the first Family Meal Monday. We’re keeping it super simple tonight. Brave Kitchen basics. Breath, taste, name.”
The kids look at me with varying degrees of interest and terror.
“Before we start,” I continue, “my brother Ethan is going to do a quick safety demo. Because choking is real in any situation involving food and eating and we should all know what to do if it happens.”
Ethan steps forward with his paramedic energy fully activated. “Hey everyone. I’m going to make this fast and not scary, I promise.”
He demonstrates the Heimlich on the adult vest. Shows parents how to do back blows on the CPR baby. Explains the difference between choking and coughing. His voice is calm, clear, reassuring. The same voice he probably uses when someone’s actively dying and he needs them to stay conscious.
My brother, the actual hero.
Meanwhile I’m over here trying not to combust every time my boss looks in my general direction.
The demo takes exactly five minutes. Parents exhale. A few pull out their phones to take notes, then remember the “no filming” rule and put them away sheepishly.
“All right,” I say when Ethan steps back. “Let’s cook.”
I guide them through the basics. Zesting citrus while counting breaths. Whisking eggs with one-two-three hand squeezes when arms get tired. Smelling herbs and naming what they notice. Nothing complicated. Just presence and process.
Ben is at her station next to me, carefully measuring flour. Frederick sits propped against her measuring cup. She’s doing the breathing without me prompting her. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow and steady.
Marco’s watching from the side. Not hovering. Just present. And the look on his face when Ben laughs at something Matteo’s daughter says is the kind of expression that makes my throat tighten.
When you realize you’re not just falling for the hot billionaire.
You’re falling for the single dad who just wants his daughter to feel safe.
Cool cool cool.
Everything is fine.
I shake it off and keep teaching. We move through stations. Tasting. Adjusting. Naming flavors instead of just consuming them. The kids are surprisingly good at this. Better than adults, actually. They don’t overthink. They just experience.
Halfway through, I feel the urge to pull out my phone. To capture this moment. To film the way Ben’s curls bounce when she stirs. To post about community over content. To prove to the algorithm that I still exist.
The urge is so strong I actually reach for my pocket.
My eyes drift to Sabrina’s note by the entrance.
Values over visibility.
I leave my phone where it is.
We plate family-style. Everyone contributes something.
The line cook’s son made a “salad” that’s mostly cucumbers.
André’s niece created a “fancy butter” situation with herbs and salt that’s actually impressive.
Ben sprinkled paprika on roasted vegetables and announced they were “brave carrots” because we repeatedly counted to three while they cooked.
And then Marco sets a plate in front of me.
Spaghetti all’astice.
My favorite dish.
The one I mentioned that first night at the bar when we were still pretending this wasn’t going to become complicated.
“You remembered,” I whisper, blinking sudden tears away.
He looks at me so tenderly, just sets down a fork and says quietly, “I remember everything.”
The words land like a confession.
Oh.
Oh no.
This might not just be sex and lust.
This might actually be... something.
I force myself to eat. The lobster is perfect.
The pasta is al dente. The butter is ridiculous and I don’t care that it’s getting everywhere.
Every bite tastes like he’s been paying attention this whole time.
Like I matter beyond the contract and the boundaries and the rules we’re both pretending we can follow.
Around the table, families are eating and laughing and not checking their phones. Kids are asking for seconds. Parents and kids alike are actually talking to each other instead of monitoring screens.
It’s working.
The whole insane concept is actually working.
After dinner, we clean up together. Kids at the sink doing “brave bubbles” and counting to calm. Parents drying and sorting. Marco and I move around each other in the kitchen space like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
Our shoulders brush when we reach for the same dish towel.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Don’t be.” His voice is low enough that only I can hear. “You did good tonight.”
Before I can respond, Ben appears at my elbow with Frederick clutched in both hands.
“Jess? Can Frederick stay here for a little while? On the shelf?” She points to a spot near the window. “So he can watch?”
“Yeah, sweetie.” I crouch down to her level. “Of course.”
She carefully places Frederick on the shelf. Adjusts him so he’s facing the room. Then she does the one-two-three hand squeeze to herself, breathing through whatever emotion is surfacing.
When she turns back to me, her eyes are shiny. “Thank you for letting me be brave.”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment I know I’m completely screwed.
Because this isn’t about the money anymore. Or the career pivot. Or even about Marco and whatever gravity keeps pulling us together.
This is about Ben.
About watching an anxious kid discover she can exist in her own body without panic.
About building something that matters more than metrics ever did.
I pull her into a hug. “You don’t need my permission to be brave. You already are.”
She squeezes back hard. Then goes with her dad to help with the last of the cleanup.
I stand there staring at Frederick on his shelf, watching the space we just created, and pretend my eyes aren’t stinging.
Lucy appears beside me. “You should be proud.”
“Of what? Teaching kids to breathe?”
“Of this.” She gestures at the room. At the families still lingering. At Ben laughing with Matteo’s daughter. At Marco watching his kid participate without freezing. “You built this. Without cameras. Without clout. Just substance.”
Substance.
Not followers. Not views. Not the validation I used to chase like it was oxygen.
Just this. Just showing up and doing the work and letting it matter without needing proof that it happened. Without a chat filled with strangers commenting on the most random things.
“Thanks,” I manage.
Families start filtering out. Hugs and promises to come back next week. Ben walks each kid to the door like a tiny hostess, with Frederick tucked under her arm once again.
When everyone’s gone, it’s just me, Marco, Ben, and the quiet hum of a well-used kitchen.
“Bedtime soon, piccola,” Marco says.
Ben nods, already yawning. “Can Jess do the bedtime story?”
“If she’s not too tired.”
They both look at me.
And I realize this is my life now. This weird, complicated, beautiful thing where I’m part nanny, part curriculum designer, part whatever Marco and I are becoming when no one’s watching.
We’re becoming nothing, I remind myself. We agreed what happened in the carriage house will never happen again.
I’m not quite sure I believe it.
“Never too tired for a story,” I tell Ben. “But we have to get back to the house, first.”
We head toward the exit. I grab my bag and deliberately don’t glance at Marco because if I do, I’ll remember the way he looked at me when he said he remembers everything.
But I feel his eyes on me anyway.
Following.
Wanting.
Knowing exactly how dangerous this is and doing it anyway.
Marco Fiore, you’re going to be the end of me.