Chapter 28 Marco
Marco
I’m standing in my kitchen at eight in the morning watching Jess move her overnight bag up to the smallest guest room on Ben’s floor, and every instinct I have is screaming that this is a terrible idea.
Not because she shouldn’t be here. Ben needs her. Filepe’s dawn sweep confirmed what I already knew. We’re locked down for at least seventy-two hours.
No. It’s a terrible idea because last night I spent six hours in the same room as this woman while my daughter slept on the bed, and the only thing that kept me from crossing every remaining line was Ben’s small hand gripping Frederick and the promise we made to put “us” on ice.
Control masquerading as care.
Gideon’s words keep rattling around my skull like a burnt pan that won’t scrub clean.
“Rosa’s prepping the homeschool setup in the library,” I tell Jess when she comes back down. “Niamh cleared the schedule. You’ll have everything you need.”
She nods. Her hair is still damp from the shower. No makeup. One of those soft T-shirts that makes her look younger than twenty-eight. “What about the night rotation? Ben did okay last night but I don’t think that was sustainable for any of us.”
Right. The night rotation.
Because apparently my whole life has become a full-service restaurant where I need logistical plans for sleeping arrangements.
I pull out my phone and open a new note. “Okay. Let’s map this out like a service flow.”
“A what?”
“Service flow. How we move bodies and plates through a dining room without collision.” I’m already typing. “Ben sleeps best with both of us close. We established that last night.”
Jess agrees purses her lips. “Are we so sure about that?” Her voice is careful. Professional. Like she’s trying very hard not to acknowledge that we spent the night in the same room. “And to be honest, I don’t think we can do another night like that. Neither you nor I got any real sleep.”
She’s not wrong.
“So we rotate,” I say. “If Ben spikes, all three of us in the primary. Calmer nights, we alternate. You take first shift with her, I monitor from the hall or the sleeper sofa. Then we swap at two a.m.”
Jess frowns. “That still means we’re both exhausted.”
“Better than the alternative.” I keep typing. “Which is one of us running on empty while the other pretends they’re fine.”
She studies me for a beat too long. “You really like systems, don’t you?”
You have no idea.
“I run restaurants,” I tell her flatly. “I think about logistics constantly. This is just another type of restaurant.”
Except it’s not. Because restaurants don’t involve sharing a room with a woman I want so badly it physically hurts. Restaurants don’t involve watching said woman breathe in the dark and remembering exactly how she fucking tastes.
Fuck.
I clear my throat and refocus on the note. “We keep it on the fridge. Simple chart. Date, night type, who’s on primary, who’s on backup. No confusion. For the next three days.”
She nods. Says nothing.
I’m trying to keep this professional, but I know it’s anything but.
Professional would be sending her and Ben to a hotel across town. Professional would be hiring another nanny and letting her walk away clean before this gets messier.
But I’m not doing that. Because Ben needs her. And maybe because I’m selfish enough to want her close even if I can’t have her the way I actually want.
“Coffee?” I offer instead of saying any of that.
“Please.”
I pour two cups. Hand her one. Our fingers brush and the contact lasts maybe half a second but it’s enough to make my cock insta-hard.
Get it together.
“So what’s the plan for today?” she asks, wrapping both hands around the mug. I imagine them wrapping around my cock. “Besides homeschool and hiding from paparazzi?”
Ravaging your pussy?
Focus, Marco!
I shift, hiding my erection from her. My pants pull tightly, and I grimace in pain.
Fuck.
“Gianna’s monitoring the feeds,” I tell her. “Sabrina’s coordinating press replies. Elena’s got a written-only policy in place.” I lean against the counter because standing too close to her is dangerous and I know it. “We stay inside. Keep Ben calm. Wait for the swarm to disperse.”
“And if it doesn’t?” she asks.
“Then we wait longer.” My erection is beginning to subside.
Thank god.
She nods slowly. Sips her coffee. Stares at the fridge where I’ve already printed the night rotation chart and stuck it up with a magnet.
“This feels very military,” she observes finally.
“It’s mise en place.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “Everything in its place. Clear roles. No surprises.”
Running my life like a restaurant.
“Right.” Her mouth quirks. Almost a smile. “Because surprises are bad.”
Understatement of the fucking year.
My phone buzzes. Filepe in the group chat.
Street count holding at three vehicles. Recommend in-house posture through midday. Will reassess at 1400.
I show Jess the message.
She shrugs. “I’ve already agreed to three days.”
“You have.”
She sets her mug down. “Guess I should start Ben’s lesson plan.”
She moves toward the library, but pauses in the doorway. “Marco?”
“Yeah?”
She opens her mouth, closes it. Opens it again. Then just smiles, and walks out.
My phone buzzes again. Ethan this time.
Heard you’re on lockdown. Need anything?
I stare at the text. My best friend. Jess’s brother. The man who warned me to keep my hands off his sister and has no idea I’ve already had my hands on her. Twice. Three times, if you count the kiss.
Which I do.
We’re good, I type back. Jess is here. Live-in. Security’s tight. Just waiting it out.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. She’s LIVING there?
Temporary. Seventy-two hours. Safer than her going back and forth with the press camped outside.
The dots stay there forever. Finally: Okay. But Marco. Seriously. Hands off.
I pocket the phone without replying and head upstairs to check the night rotation setup one more time. The primary suite is exactly as we left it this morning. Bed made. Blackout drapes in place. White noise machine queued on low.
The sleeper sofa in the hall is pulled out and made up. Backup position for whoever’s on monitor duty.
Everything in its place.
I move to Ben’s floor. The smallest guest room door is open. Jess’s bag on the chair. Her phone charging on the nightstand. A book I don’t recognize splayed open on the bed.
I turn to leave and nearly collide with Jess coming up the stairs.
“Sorry,” she says quickly. Steadies herself with one hand on the wall. “I was just coming to grab my notebook.”
We’re standing too close. Maybe three inches between us. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo. That lavender and citrus combination that’s been driving me insane for weeks.
She doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
Cue my cock. Insta-hard.
Again.
This is a bad idea.
This is a terrible idea.
Step back.
Now.
Instead I hear myself say, “Last night. That wasn’t easy.”
“No,” she agrees quietly. “It wasn’t.”
“But we did it.”
“We did it,” she echoes.
The words hang between us like a challenge. Like the thinnest possible line between what we want and what we’re choosing.
“Tonight will be easier,” I tell her. Even though I don’t believe it. Even though my hard cock aches in my jeans. “We have a system now.”
“A system.” Her mouth quirks. “Very you.”
“Fuck off.” But there’s no heat in it.
She actually smiles. And for half a second the weight lifts and it’s just us. Two people trying to do right by a kid who deserves better than the chaos we keep almost creating.
Then Ben’s voice carries up from the library. “Jess? Frederick needs help with his worksheet.”
The moment breaks. My cock deflates.
“Duty calls,” Jess says lightly. Moves past me to grab the notebook. “See you at dinner?”
“Yeah. Dinner.” I smile wistfully.
She retrieves the book and disappears down the stairs.
I stand in the hallway staring at her open door, thinking about the seventy-two hours stretching out like a minefield I have to cross without detonating anything.
You can do this.
You’ve run Michelin kitchens.
You’ve built a restaurant group from nothing.
You can handle three days in close quarters with a woman you want but can’t have.
My phone buzzes. Luis in the security chat: Perimeter check complete. All clear inside. Street count unchanged.
I text back: Copy. Holding in-house posture.
Then I head downstairs to do the only thing I know how to do when everything’s spinning out of control.
I cook.
Rosa gives me space in the kitchen. I pull out flour and eggs and start working dough. Pasta from scratch. Something tactile and precise that requires focus.
Knead. Fold. Rest. Repeat.
The rhythm steadies me. Grounds me. Reminds me that some things still make sense even when everything else is burning down.
By the time Jess brings Ben down for lunch, I’ve got fresh tagliatelle hanging and a simple butter sauce reducing on the stove.
“Smells amazing,” Jess says.
Ben climbs onto her stool. “What are you making, Daddy?”
“Pasta. Want to help me plate?”
Her face lights up. “Yes!”
We work together. Ben counts the noodles like she counts snail shells in the garden. Jess watches from the island, notebook open, probably taking mental notes for Brave Kitchen.
And for maybe five minutes, it feels normal. Like we’re just a family having lunch together on a random weekday.
Except we’re not a family. We’re a widower, his employee, and a kid trying to navigate grief and anxiety while the world watches through telephoto lenses.
But maybe...
Someday.
I kill the thought before it can take root.
Seventy-two hours.
I can survive seventy-two hours.