Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty Three
Erica
The grocery bags rustle in my trunk every time I hit a bump, like they’re trying to talk me out of this.
I keep both hands on the steering wheel anyway.
It was a stupid idea.
It was also the first idea I’ve had in days that wasn’t fear or shame or work or my dad’s meds schedule.
So I ran with it.
I’m not some domestic goddess. I’m not the kind of woman who wears an apron and sings while she cooks. But I’ve made a roast before, a good one. The kind that fills a house with a warm, rich smell and makes people slow down and sit and eat a comfy, cozy meal.
It’s not elegant, but it’s simple. Hard to mess up.
Hopefully.
The address Nico texted me is on a quiet road tucked away from the main traffic, the kind of neighborhood you don’t accidentally end up in unless you belong there or you’re delivering something.
As I turn onto the drive, my chest tightens anyway.
Because this is his house.
Not his office. Not my couch or bedroom. Not my kitchen,227 where he could move through the space like he’d already claimed it.
Actually his.
The road curves, trees thick on either side. Then the stone wall appears, low enough that it doesn’t feel like a prison, but high enough that it does its job. An iron gate sits between two pillars, clean lines, no ornate scrollwork.
I slow to a stop in front of it.
For a second, I stare at the gate like I might’ve typed the address wrong. Like maybe this is someone else’s house, and I’m about to embarrass myself in a whole new way.
Then a small light blinks above the keypad.
The gate opens smoothly and quietly, like it’s expecting me.
My stomach flips.
I drive through, and the gate closes behind me with a finality that makes me swallow hard.
The driveway is long, lined on both sides with colorful bursts of flowers.
Gravel crunches under the tires. Landscaping is manicured without being fussy—green hedges, mature trees, beds of flowers that look like someone actually wants them there, not just arranged to impress.
The house appears around the bend, and my foot eases off the gas.
It’s… disarming.
Not sleek, not cold, not some glass-and-steel billionaire fortress perched above the world.
It’s stone and warm wood. Wide and grounded. Windows glowing from within like the house itself is breathing.
A deep porch stretches across the front with comfortable, inviting seating, the kind where someone might sit barefoot with a cold drink on a hot summer night.
It doesn’t posture.
It welcomes.
There’s a softness to the lines—rounded edges, a sloping roofline, the kind of shape that feels built for living, not impressing.
For some reason, I expected something stark. Defensive. Impenetrable.
Something that matched the sharp edges Nico shows the world.
This isn’t that.
This feels like it belongs to someone who wants to come home.
Nico’s home. I have a sense of something between curiosity and relief.
I pull up near the steps leading to the double-front doors and kill the engine. My hands stay on the wheel for a second longer than they need to, gripping.
Okay.
I can do this.
I get out and pop the trunk.
The front door opens before I even open mine.
A woman steps out onto the porch and starts down the steps, moving with calm and purpose.
She’s older—maybe late fifties or early sixties—with silver streaks in dark hair worn in a loose bun. She’s dressed simply, but everything about her looks put-together and intentional. Black slacks. A soft white blouse. Comfortable shoes. No jewelry except a thin chain at her neck.
Her eyes land on me and soften slightly.
“Ms. Crawford?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say automatically. “Hi.”
She smiles, small and polite.
“I’m Marisol,” she says. Her voice has a gentle accent I can’t place immediately. “Mr. Conti told me you’d be coming.”
Of course he did.
My throat tightens anyway.
“Okay,” I manage. “I— um. I brought groceries.”
I gesture toward the trunk.
Marisol’s gaze flicks to the car, and she nods once, like that makes perfect sense.
“I’ll help,” she says, already stepping forward.
“Oh no, you don’t have to,” I say quickly.
“I want to,” she says, smiling softly.
I fidget nervously with my fingers.
“Thank you,” I say and step to the car to open the trunk. I clear my throat. “He’s… not home?”
“Not yet,” she says, lifting two bags like they’re nothing. “He called to let me know you would be here. You’re welcome to use the kitchen.”
My cheeks heat.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I’m—I don’t want to… I don’t want to mess anything up. I know how this sounds. Like I’m just showing up and—”
Marisol pauses and looks at me fully, and there’s something in her expression that makes me stop talking.
Not judgment. Not amusement.
Just calm.
“Everything is at your disposal,” she says. “These were strict instructions from Mr. Conti.”
I swallow back another sudden bout of nerves.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Thank you.”
She nods, then heads inside with the groceries. I grab the rest and follow her up the steps and through the door.
The warmth hits first.
Not the temperature. Just the sense of warmth. As if the home is alive with it.
The entryway opens into a wide space with pale wood floors and a runner rug that looks comfortably used. There’s a console table with a bowl for keys. A framed photo on the wall—something candid, not posed. I don’t stop long enough to study the figures in it, but it registers as I pass.
To the left, a… library with deep couches and a fireplace. To the right, steps that lead up. Straight ahead, the house opens into a large living area with an open kitchen visible beyond it.
There’s art on the walls, but it isn’t sterile. More books on shelves. A throw blanket folded over the back of a chair as if someone actually grabbed it last night.
It feels… human.
That makes my chest tighten in a different way.
I try to reconcile this house with the man who has such rules for me, who watches me with a gaze so intense it makes my skin heat, who can be so stern and demanding one minute and so tender the next.
The thought of Nico and his rules reminds me of the ones I’m following right now. The ones that are already making me hyper-aware of my own body.
I adjust the bags in my hands, pressing my thighs together just for a second before continuing.
If I had panties, they'd be completely ruined right now, but as it is, I can feel the slickness gathering on my bare skin.
I did stop at home quickly to shower and change out of my work clothes, so I did have the chance to put on a new pair, but I figured Nico would be more pleased if I didn't.
The fact that I find myself wondering about whether Nico will be pleased or not makes my face flush all over again.
Marisol leads me through the house, quiet as we walk, and I notice all the little details of this home that continue to surprise me. No harsh overhead fluorescents. A clean, open layout that still feels comfortable, like it was designed to be lived in, not just shown off.
The kitchen is big enough to intimidate me slightly, though.
A large island in the middle, stone countertop, three stools tucked under one side.
Stainless appliances. A deep sink. Cabinets that go all the way up to the ceiling.
Everything clean, but not empty. A bowl of lemons on the counter.
A jar of wooden spoons. A coffee machine that looks like it costs more than a year’s worth of my car payments.
Marisol sets the bags down on the island and turns to me.
“Do you need anything?” she asks. “A cutting board? A roasting pan?”
“I… probably,” I admit. “I’m making a roast. I hope.”
Her mouth twitches, like that almost makes her smile bigger.
“A roast is good,” she says simply. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I’ve done it before, but I’m a bit nervous,” I say, and it comes out before I can stop it. “I’m not much of a cook. I don’t know why I’m even attempting this, to be honest.”
Marisol’s smile warms.
“Everyone’s a little nervous at first,” she says. “He’s particular, you know. About… things.”
My stomach flips.
“Is he?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “I hadn't noticed.”
She nods, very slightly.
“He doesn't let many people into this house. And into his… life.”
My throat feels tight again.
I look at the bags on the counter and start unloading them, just to have something to do with my hands. Beef. Potatoes. Carrots. Onions. Garlic. A bottle of red wine I agonized over at the store because I don’t know anything about wine.
Marisol watches me for a second, then moves to a cabinet and pulls out a roasting pan. It’s heavy, dark enameled cast iron, and she places it on the counter with a solid thud.
“This one is good,” she says. “I can pull out the herbs and spices you’ll need, too.”
"Thank you," I say, a bit jittery thinking about her words.
She places her hand gently on mine on the counter, a surprising, warm touch.
"But he let you in," she says softly. "That means something."
My chest tightens again, but it’s different this time. It's a wave of emotions I wasn't expecting: gratitude, hope, and a deep, primal desire to be that person for him.
I don't know what to say to that. So I just nod, and my cheeks heat again.
She seems to understand.
“Now, let’s see what you brought,” she says.
She gives my groceries a once-over as I speak.
“Last time I did this, I added the potatoes to the roast, but I think I’m going to mash them this time,” I say, speaking a little too quickly.
Marisol pulls a large stockpot out from a lower cabinet and places it in the sink.
“Mashed potatoes are good,” she says. “He likes garlic in them.”
“Okay. Garlic in the potatoes,” I repeat, my mind whirring with information, trying to remember it all. “Got it.”
I spot the wine and pick it up. "Is this a good wine? I don't know much about it," I say. "I don't really drink it, but I was going to put the roast in it."
She takes it from my hand and looks at it, then nods.
"Yes, good."
She opens a pantry door that’s hidden in the wall, and it’s stocked like a high-end grocery store. She pulls out a small bottle of olive oil, a jar of dried herbs.
“Fresh rosemary and thyme from the garden,” she says, pointing toward a door at the back of the kitchen. “If you want to use them.”
My eyes widen.
“Wow,” I say before I can stop myself.
She smiles again.
“Anything else you need, you just ask,” she says. Then she glances at the clock on the wall. “I need to finish the laundry. Then I will check on you before I leave for the evening. Unless you need me to stay longer."
Before I can even form a response, she’s gone, leaving me alone in this beautiful, intimidating kitchen.
I look down at the roast on the counter.
Okay.
I can do this.
I can sear a piece of meat and put it in an oven and pretend my heart isn’t bursting out of my chest because I’m standing in Nico Conti’s kitchen as if I belong here, and I’m going to spend the night in his bed.
My hands tighten around the edge of the cutting board for a second.
Then I let go, pick up the garlic, and start peeling.
Because if I keep thinking, I’m going to run.
And I’m tired of running.