Chapter 51
Jess
The outside of the townhouse looks exactly the same as I remember it. Same wrought-iron railing. Same potted herbs by the door. Same security camera that Filepe probably has pointed directly at my face right now. It’s earlier evening, but already twilight.
I’m standing on the front steps like an idiot, clutching my phone and trying to decide if I should knock or just text Marco that I’m here.
Which is ridiculous because I used to live here.
Had my own key. My own room. My own drawer full of emergency snacks for a five-year-old who I’d grown very fond of.
The door opens.
Marco.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a Henley that emphasizes his build. He’s not wearing a mask, and his scars are visible in the afternoon light. As usual, somehow those scars have made him even more attractive than ever before.
Stop objectifying your former boss who hired a PI to stalk your life.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is careful, like he’s worried I might bolt.
That’s a fair concern, honestly.
“Hey yourself.” I shift my bag higher on my shoulder. “So. Contract stuff.”
“Yeah.” He steps aside. “Elena and Rahul are already here. We’re set up in the library.”
I enter and he leads me toward the library.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Ethan: You there yet?
Right. The promise.
Marco glances at me.
“It’s Ethan,” I explain.
I fire back: Just arrived. Marco answered the door. Still has his face. Still stupidly attractive. Send help.
Ethan sends: That’s not funny.
I reply: Wasn’t trying to be funny. Reporting facts as promised.
Ethan: Text me when you leave.
Me: Will do. Love you too, my overprotective brother.
He sends back a middle finger emoji, which I’m choosing to interpret as affection.
“What did he say?” Marco asks.
I show him, and Marco suppresses a smile. “Typical Ethan.”
We reach the library. Elena Park, his lead counsel, sits at the table with her laptop open and several color-coded folders arranged in front of her. Rahul Desai, Marco’s CFO, is next to her, reviewing something on his tablet.
“Jessica.” Elena stands and offers her hand. “Good to see you.”
“You, too.” I shake her hand and slide into the chair across from them. Marco takes the seat beside me.
“All right.” Elena opens the top folder. “Let’s talk Brave Kitchen first.”
For the next forty-five minutes, we go through the details. Independent contractor status. Micro grants routed through Lucy Hammond-Blackwell’s foundation so there’s no direct financial tie to Marco.
“You maintain creative control,” Elena explains near the end. “Marco provides support without oversight.”
“It’s your show,” Marco adds quietly.
I glance at him. He’s staring at the contract like it contains the secrets of the universe instead of just a bunch of legal jargon about IP ownership.
Rahul slides another document across the table. “This is the support agreement. It funnels resources to your programming but you’re under no obligation to report metrics or outcomes. You run it how you see fit.”
It really is my show.
I scan the numbers. They’re generous. More than generous.
“This is a lot of money,” I say slowly.
“It’s the right amount,” Marco replies. His tone leaves no room for negotiation.
Elena points to a clause halfway down the page. “There’s also a provision here that if at any point you feel the arrangement compromises your independence, you can terminate with thirty days notice. No penalties.”
I read the clause.
Then read it again.
It’s exactly what I needed without knowing I needed it.
“Amara looked this over for me already,” I admit. “She said it was cleaner than most corporate deals she reviews.”
“Amara Khan is excellent,” Elena says with genuine respect. “I’m glad you had someone in your corner.”
Not just in my corner...
Actually fighting for me when I was too emotionally wrecked to fight for myself.
“One more thing,” Marco says, glancing at Elena. “We’re not doing the nanny contract.”
Elena’s eyebrows raise slightly. “No?”
“No.” He looks at me. “If Jess decides to move back in at some point, it’ll be as my partner. Not my employee. We’ll hire someone else for childcare coverage if needed.”
What?
Oh.
Oh.
If I decide to move back in...
My face goes hot. “Marco, I—”
“That works,” Elena interrupts smoothly, like she expected this all along. “Keeps everything clean. No power imbalance issues.” She slides the Brave Kitchen agreement across the table. “This is the only contract you need.”
Marco signs first. Then Rahul. Then Elena.
They all look at me.
I pick up the pen. Hesitate.
Then sign.
Elena gathers the documents with practiced efficiency. “Congratulations. You’re officially an independent contractor with full creative control over Brave Kitchen.”
“And Marco’s officially a silent benefactor who keeps his opinions to himself,” Rahul adds with a small smile.
Marco huffs a laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
They pack up their things.
Then they’re gone.
Leaving me alone with Marco in a library that suddenly feels much smaller than it did five minutes ago.
“So,” I say, because my brain is still stuck on what he said two minutes ago. “You said ‘if I decide to move back in at some point.’ As your partner.”
He turns to face me fully. “I did.”
“Were you serious?” My voice comes out smaller than I intended. “Because that’s kind of a big thing to just drop in front of your lawyers.”
“I was serious.” He leans closer. “But only if you want to. No pressure. We can take it slowly.”
We just stand there for a beat, looking at each other like two idiots who forget how basic human interaction works.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “Ben’s with the grandparents?”
“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “They wanted to take her to the Natural History Museum. She’s been asking to go for weeks. She’ll be staying the night with them.”
“That seems a little convenient.” I say. “You’re not trying to get into my pants, are you, Mr. Marco Fiore?” The words are out before I can stop them.
OH MY GOD.
DID I JUST SAY THAT OUT LOUD?
My face floods with heat. I can feel it radiating off my cheeks like I’m a human furnace.
“I mean.” I backtrack frantically. “Not that you would. Or that I’m assuming. I just meant that it’s funny timing. Ha. Funny.”
Please open up and swallow me whole, library floor. I’m ready.
But Marco’s lips twitch. “Would it be terrible if I said yes?”
My brain short-circuits.
“Yes to which part?” I manage.
“The getting into your pants part.” His voice drops lower. “Because I’d very much like to get into your pants. But only if you want that, too.”
Former nanny discovers she does, in fact, want her former employer in her pants. Story at eleven because we’re apparently doing this.
“I want that,” I whisper hungrily.
His eyes darken. “Good.”
We sit there staring at each other, idiot mode returning.
“Should we.” I gesture vaguely upstairs. “Your room?”
“Our room,” he corrects quietly. “If you want it to be.”
Oh.
Oh no.
This is real.
This is happening.
This is not a drill.
I stand.
He stands.
We walk toward the stairs like we’re heading to a business meeting instead of about to completely wreck each other.
His primary suite looks different, too. Less cave-like. More lived in. The blackout shades are open, letting in the afternoon light.
He shuts the door when we’re both inside, and then moves to stand in front of the full-length mirror near the closet. “Will you... can you stand behind me?”
I position myself behind him. His height means I have to look up to see his face in the reflection. After a moment:
“Do you find me ugly?” he asks quietly.
“What? No.” I shake my head emphatically. “Marco, no. Not even a little bit.”
“But... the scars.” He winces when he says the last word.
“The scars are proof you fought a fucking bear and lived.” I step closer, not quite touching. “They’re marks of your courage. Of how far you’d go to protect the people you love.”
His jaw works. “Jess.”
I hug him from behind, resting my head against his powerful back.
“Three neutral facts,” he says softly, and his chest hums beneath me. I look up, and watch him recite to his reflection: “Left zygomatic ridge healed. Hairline ridge present. Eye tracking intact.” He smiles sadly. “That’s what I learned from the mirror circle.”
“My turn.” I meet his eyes in the mirror, not releasing him. “You’re still stupidly hot. Your scars make you look dangerous in a way that probably shouldn’t turn me on but absolutely do. And I think I might love you.”
The last part comes out before I can stop it.
Smooth, Jess.
Just drop the L-word like you’re ordering coffee.
But Marco starts to turn around, so I release him.
He looks down at me with an expression that makes my knees weak.
“Did you mean what you said last night?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “At the cafe? About loving me?”
His response is immediate. “I did. Even though I was married. Even though it made me feel guilty every single day. I’ve loved you since Vegas, Jess. Through all the guilt and shame and hiding. I’ve loved you.”
“And you’ve set me free,” I whisper back.
He kisses me.
It starts tentatively. Like we’re both afraid the other might break.
Then it deepens.
His good arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer. I thread my fingers through his hair, careful to avoid the fresh scab at his hairline.
Holy shit this is happening.
He makes a low, pained sound. For a moment I think he’s utterly turned on like I am, but then I remember.
I pull back. “Your shoulder.”
“It’s fine,” he grits out.
“Liar.” I tell him. “One-two-three, brave. Breathe with me.”
We count together. His breathing evens out. The tension in his jaw eases slightly.
“Maybe we should call it a night,” I suggest, even though every part of me is screaming NO DON’T YOU DARE STOP NOW.
“Hell no,” he says firmly.
Thank God.
Still, I say: “Marco...”
“Jess.” He cups my face with his good hand. “I’ve waited weeks for this. For you. I’m not stopping because of some nerve pain.”