Chapter 16 Jess
Jess
I’m reorganizing Marco’s mudroom at six in the morning because apparently this is what I do now when I can’t stop thinking about my boss naked.
When your coping mechanism for sexual frustration is color-coded storage bins.
The mudroom is a disaster. Well, not a disaster by normal people standards. But by Marco Fiore’s obsessive-compulsive, everything-has-a-place-and-God-help-you-if-it’s-not-there standards? It’s a mess. And while messy is sometimes good, that’s not the case here.
Ben’s backpack hooks are too high. The umbrella stand blocks the door.
Winter gear is mixed with rain gear which is mixing with I-don’t-even-know-what gear.
And the morning routine that should take five minutes is taking ten or fifteen because we’re all tripping over each other trying to find stuff.
So here I am. Rearranging a billionaire’s entryway before sunrise because I can’t sleep anyway.
Because every time I close my eyes I see Marco’s hands. His mouth. The way.
Enough.
You have a job to do.
A job that does NOT involve mentally replaying your boss rail—
“Whatcha doing?”
I nearly drop the label maker. Ben’s standing in the doorway in her pajamas, clutching Frederick like he’s the only thing keeping her grounded. Her curls are a mess. I’ll have to fix those in about thirty minutes.
“Morning, sweetie. Just making the mudroom less muddy.” I gesture at my work. “See? Your hooks are lower now. And I made a special spot for Frederick when you get home from school.”
Her eyes go wide. “Frederick gets his own spot?”
“Obviously. He’s part of the morning routine.” I show her the little shelf I cleared. Perfect snail-sized. “Right here. So he can watch you get ready.”
She sets him on the shelf experimentally. Steps back. Tilts her head like she’s considering a big life decision or something.
“He likes it,” she announces. Then she pulls a sheet of stickers from her pocket. Little stars that say brAVE. I have no idea where she got them. At school?
She peels one off and sticks it directly on Frederick’s shell.
“For helping,” she explains. Very serious. “He helps me do the Brave Rules. So he gets a brave sticker.”
My throat goes tight. This kid. This anxious, wonderful, heartbreaking kid just gave her stuffed snail a participation award and I’m about to cry in a mudroom at six fifteen in the morning.
“That’s perfect, Ben. He’s going to love that.” I give Frederick a pat.
“Do you think Daddy will like the new mudroom?”
Daddy.
Right.
Your boss who you absolutely did not have sex with.
Nope.
Never happened.
My face grows hot. Thank God she’s five and doesn’t understand why adults turn into tomatoes for no reason.
“I think he’ll love it,” I manage.
She nods, satisfied, and wanders back toward the kitchen. Probably to ask Rosa for an early breakfast even though it’s not time yet.
I finish labeling. Move the umbrella stand to the corner. Separate and store the seasonal gear. Set aside a small basket for “things that need to go upstairs” so we’re not constantly running between floors.
It’s efficient. The kind of system that should easily shave ten minutes off the morning routine.
When you realize you’re basically a professional organizer now.
Marie Kondo’s “Joy at Work” but the anxious version.
I’m testing the new chime settings with Luis when I hear it.
Marco’s voice. Coming from his office down the hall. Raised. Not yelling exactly. But tense. That controlled anger that’s somehow worse than actual yelling.
I shouldn’t eavesdrop.
I’m absolutely going to eavesdrop.
I sneak inside, and move closer to the home office door. It’s cracked open about two inches. Just enough to hear.
“What fake name did he use to register this time?” Marco is saying. His voice is tight. Controlled anger.
A pause. He’s on speaker with someone.
“James Mitchell,” a woman responds. I recognize the voice of Gianna, his COO. “Paid cash. Ordered the tasting menu.”
“And what exactly did he say when he pulled out the recorder?” Marco presses.
Gianna is quiet for a moment. Then: “He asked the sommelier about ‘whether standards have changed since Chef Fiore stepped back.’”
“Stepped back?” Marco’s voice becomes tighter. “I’m there three nights a week.”
I watch through the crack as Marco paces. He’s in a black henley again because apparently that’s his entire wardrobe. The fabric stretches across his shoulders and I have to physically stop myself from remembering what those shoulders look like without the shirt.
Focus, Jess.
Professional eavesdropping only.
“He also called our seafood distributor yesterday,” Gianna continues. “Asked about delivery schedules. Whether we’ve been ordering less. Whether quality requests have changed.”
“Christ.” Marco stops pacing. Presses his palms flat on his desk. “He’s going around the new house policies entirely.”
And then I see it happen.
The three-count breath.
In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth. Hold.
Repeated twice more.
The same technique I taught Ben. The same one I use when my anxiety is trying to convince me the world is ending.
He’s using my breathing method.
In a board call.
To calm himself down.
Oh.
“We’re not engaging,” he says after the breath. His voice is steadier now. “Same as before: written replies only. No off-record conversations. Staff who get approached refer to press and walk away.”
The call continues but I’m not really hearing it anymore.
Because Marco Fiore, billionaire restaurateur, control freak extraordinaire, just used a coping mechanism I taught his five-year-old daughter.
And it worked.
I back away from the door before I get caught lurking. Return to the mudroom. Work on the last of my tidying-up.
My phone buzzes.
Marco.
Thank you.
I stare at those two words for approximately seventeen years.
Thank you could mean anything. Could be about the mudroom. Could be about Ben. Could be about literally anything that happened in the last twenty-four hours.
But then I instantly know what it means.
It means he noticed.
The breathing thing.
He tried it, and it worked.
It means I’m not just the nanny who reorganizes closets and does hair. I’m someone whose systems are making his life better. Not just Ben’s life. His.
When you realize you’re not just useful.
You’re necessary.
And that’s somehow more terrifying than being wanted.
I should text back something professional. Something that maintains boundaries and doesn’t acknowledge the fact we violated seventeen different contract clauses in his studio.
Instead I type: Anytime. That’s what I’m here for.
His response is immediate: Is it?
Two words. A question. Loaded with about nine thousand layers of subtext.
He’s right, though. Because even I’m not sure. Am I here just for the job? Or am I here for something else? Something we both keep pretending isn’t happening?
Yes, I type back.
Because what else can I say? That I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about him? That reorganizing his mudroom at dawn is my love language? That watching him use my breathing technique made something in my chest crack open?
No.
Absolutely not.
We have rules. We have a contract. We have approximately six thousand reasons this can’t be more than it already is.
My phone stays silent after that.
I finish the mudroom. Stand back and survey my work.
Rosa appears in the doorway with coffee. “You’ve been busy.”
“Yeah, I got here early,” I admit. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Mmhmm.” She hands me the mug. Gives me a look that says she knows exactly why I couldn’t sleep and is choosing not to comment. “Mr. Fiore will appreciate this.”
“It’s just a mudroom.”
“It’s systems,” she corrects. “Systems he didn’t know he needed. You’re good at that.”
“At what?”
“Seeing what’s missing. Filling gaps.” She pats my shoulder. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
She leaves before I can respond.
I’m still standing there holding my coffee when Ben runs back in. Fully dressed now. Hair still a disaster but we’ll fix that.
“Jess! Look!” She points at Frederick on his shelf. At his brave sticker. “He’s so proud.”
“He should be. He’s a very brave snail.”
She does the hand squeeze to herself. One, two, three. Breathes. Smiles.
Then she grabs her backpack from the new lower hook without anyone telling her to.
The system works.
The breathing works.
All of it works.
And Marco noticed.
When you realize you’re not failing.
You’re actually succeeding.
At something that matters more than any social media app ever did.
I finish my coffee and try not to think about what it means that he’s personally using techniques I taught his daughter.
Try not to think about the fact I’ve somehow become essential to the infrastructure of his life.
I fail spectacularly.