32. Biscotti & Boundaries
Chapter thirty-two
Biscotti & Boundaries
Marlow
Dinner at Daddy’s was exactly what I expected—same old stories, same pinot noir, same half-hearted jabs about how I work too much and how he definitely dates too little. I let it play out for as long as I could, then faked another bout of citrus-induced nausea to cut the evening short.
Still, I didn’t leave empty-handed. I packed up a plate of the seared ahi tuna and mango ceviche and told myself I was just grabbing leftovers like always. But the truth is, it was for Declan. And thankfully, Daddy didn’t press.
We live on opposite sides of the building so he also misses the fact that I don’t go home. Not to my home at least.
Marlow’s got a man.
The drive back to Declan’s feels different.
It doesn’t feel like everything is on fire and I’m a decision away from detonation, different. More like the kind of different that creeps in slowly and it’s practically intoxicating because it feels a little too good.
The sky’s an inky, late-night blue, the streets are quiet, and there’s this maddening hum of contentment settling in my chest like it belongs there.
And it should piss me off.
Because I’m supposed to be spiraling. I should be anxious, furious, and halfway to drafting an exit strategy in my head.
But instead, I feel calm. Steady. Like something inside me exhaled for the first time in a while.
And for a second, that calm—this different—doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like something I’ve been needing all along and never even realized how much.
Until the inevitable gut-punch reminder slams into me.
This kind of different? This brand of forbidden, secret-marriage, emotionally reckless different can burn everything I’ve worked for to the ground. Not just my life—but the lives of people I care about.
And that’s the thing about different—it rarely shows up with flashing lights or sirens. Sometimes, it sneaks in soft, wrapped in a slow smile, barefoot in a kitchen, and waiting to undo you with something warm and sweet and utterly inviting.
Because the second I step through the front door and close it behind me, that’s exactly what hits me.
A wave of buttery warmth wraps around me, thick with sugar and something citrusy, like orange zest and vanilla had a baby and baked it in heaven.
It’s not store-bought. It’s not from a box.
It’s rich and real and homemade. There’s honey in it.
Almonds, too. Maybe even a little bit of magic dusted in powdered sugar.
And in an instant I know exactly where different is hiding tonight.
Declan is standing at the counter, shirtless, his forearms dusted in flour, focused with the same intensity I’ve seen him bring to the field. A tray of golden cannoli shells cools beside him, while another batch bakes in the oven—judging by the smell alone, they’re nearly done.
The counter is a perfect storm of pastry prep: a bowl of ricotta filling piped with care, strips of orange peel on the cutting board, and a snowdrift of powdered sugar waiting on a plate.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, stepping into the kitchen.
He glances up, flashing a too-proud grin. “Welcome home, wife. I told you I’d make dessert tonight.”
“Right,” I mutter, eyes trailing down the line of his body, “I just assumed you were joking. And would be wearing more clothes?”
He grins, pleased with himself. “Do you like it?”
“Yes. I love cannoli,” I admit, stepping closer. “I’ve been wanting to learn how to make it for years.”
I can see the flicker of disappointment in his eyes when I sidestep the real bait in his question. He wanted a reaction. A blush. A flirty comeback. Maybe even a confession about how good he looks half-dressed and dusted in flour.
But I won’t give him that.
He rounds the kitchen island, stepping in close—too close—and reaches up above my head. I realize there’s a sleek rack of hanging kitchen tools just overhead, but the way he moves feels more like a hunter closing in.
“I can teach you,” he says.
A breath of air rushes out. “Uh. Sure. Sure, I’d love that. Where’d you learn?” I fan my shirt slightly. Is it hot in here? Of course it is. The oven’s on.
“My nonna,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue like silk and smoke.
“Your grandmother?” I clarify, even though I already know.
He nods. “Yes.”
“She raised you?”
“Her and my father.”
“In Italy?”
Something about the way he says it—his posture, the faint, faraway gleam in his eye—makes me suddenly want to know everything about him.
“Some in Italy. The rest in Argentina.”
“Why two different countries?” I ask before I can stop myself. My dad always said I was too nosy when I was younger.
He smiles, lazy. “That’s for another day, Americana. We don’t need to unpack family history on our first night together.”
My hand flies to my chest like it might shield me from his heat. “We’re not… it’s not our first night together.”
His smirk deepens. “Oh, trust me. I remember.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I snap. “We’re not together. Not like that. I’m just staying here. Sleeping here.”
His eyes narrow. “Will you be fucking here, too?”
“Excuse me?” I gasp, shocked and flushed. “I would never bring a man here.”
His gaze turns murderous. “Not if you don’t want someone’s blood on my hands, you won’t.” Something in his gaze tells me he means it. “I meant,” he says, tone flat and possessive, “will you be fucking me, wife?”
It doesn’t sound like a question.
“No, Declan. That part of this marriage stays in Vegas.”
His gaze drops to my chest. “Your nipples say otherwise.”
I stiffen. “My body’s response to you is nothing more than that…
a response,” I lie, because I’m one breath away from climbing onto this kitchen island and inviting him to ruin me.
But I have a bet to win. A sliver of pride to protect.
And I’m not ready to hand either over to this man—especially not like that.
I like it better in the shower.
“Suit yourself,” he says, backing off with maddening ease. “But I’m on the other side of the house in the master bedroom, if you change your mind.”
“I won’t.” I snap the words too fast, too firm—like a defiant teenager stomping her foot.
But then he steps forward, and I instinctively step back until the edge of the coffee bar presses into my spine. He’s holding a cannoli now, casual in his hands.
“I guess,” he murmurs, lifting the pastry. “I’ll just have to survive off the memory of one unforgettable night in Las Vegas… with my wife.”
“Exactly,” I say, my voice shaky. Unconvincing.
He raises the cannoli, brushing it lightly across my bottom lip. “Open for me, Americana.”
“What?” My voice catches. “Wha—huh?”
“Open,” he says again, lower this time. “So you can taste.”
I part my lips, and he slides a bite in. The second the flavors hit my tongue—citrus, creamy ricotta, the perfect crunch of the shell—I moan, eyes fluttering closed against my better judgment.
When I open them again, he’s closer. Too close. His head dips and I barely register the brush of his mouth before he licks powdered sugar off my bottom lip.
“Mmm,” he hums. “Delicious.”
“Declan, bet—” I stammer, catching myself. “I mean, you better stop.”
Because I have a bet to win.
Because I can’t let myself fall for the one person who could unravel everything I’ve worked for.
And because you’re not my husband.
You’re just the mistake I’m trying not to repeat.
Even if my body keeps forgetting that.
There’s an elegant round table in the corner of the kitchen with two bamboo chairs. But it’s what’s on the table that stops me cold.
“Are those my bras and panties? Folded?”
Declan glances at the stack, then back at me. “I washed them.”
“You washed my panties. And bras.” My voice comes out strangled.
Since I’d be splitting time between two places, I’d ordered an extra set of unmentionables to be delivered here. I assumed his staff would drop them in my room. Wrong.
“You’re supposed to wash new underwear before wearing it,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“I know that, dick face. What I don’t understand is why you took it upon yourself to do it for me!”
“You’re welcome.”
I exhale slowly, collecting myself before I commit homicide against the beautiful man that is my husband.
“We need rules. Boundaries, Declan,” I stammer, the words scraping their way out of my throat. It’s the only defense I have left. If I say it out loud, maybe my brain will finally catch up and remember he’s the hazard I keep forgetting to run from.
His eyes narrow, and I hate how even that looks good on him. “What kind of boundaries? For what?”
I sidestep quickly, putting the kitchen island between us like it’s a barricade that could actually hold.
There’s a half-drunk glass of wine on the counter—I know it’s his, but I grab it anyway and finish it in one long pull. Desperate for something to still me.
He tilts his head, that maddeningly calm expression back on his face, and moves toward me again. It’s like the concept of space between us is optional for him. And he always chooses option-closer.
“You mean boundaries like what’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine?” he says, gesturing at his now empty glass. That Italian accent curling around every word like a dare.
“No,” I snap, sharper this time. But who am I kidding? Even I can hear the tremor beneath my voice. “I mean real boundaries, Declan. No sex. No flirting or innuendos. No crossing lines we can’t uncross.”
“If that’s what you prefer,” he says with a grin. “I’d prefer not to have a tsunami of sex flood my panties when you’re near.”
I keep that to myself, though I’m certain he can already feel it in the air. The way he moves tells me he’s reading me. Sensing me.
“And when the cameras do show up? For the check-ins?” He asks, closing the gap even more. “You want us to act like strangers then?”
I blink. “We can…perform.”
“So, kissing?”
I nod. “Fine.”
“What about touching?” he asks, and it’s not innocent. “How much?”
“Holding hands. That’s it.”
He smiles, and it’s sexy. I mean, infuriating. “And how do we know it’ll look real if we don’t practice?”
“Declan—”
But he silences me the way he always does—like restraint has never been in his vocabulary. His mouth crushes mine, and there’s no slow build, no prelude. Just fire. Just him. His tongue claiming space like he’s leaving something behind, like this kiss is a transaction and I’m now in debt.
This man kisses in Italian.
And if memory serves me right, he fucks in Italian too.
And I think I miss him.
He pulls back just enough to touch his forehead to mine, breath ragged. “Perché mi combatti così, Americana?”
My voice is barely a whisper. “What does that mean?”
He exhales, like I’ve wounded him. “Why do you fight me so, Americana? Why do you fight this,” he pants, pointing between us. “When your body’s begging for it? For me?”
And as he stares into my eyes, quiet, steady, like he already knows how this ends, I can barely remember the reason why myself. Why I’m fighting this. Why I thought rules would protect me from him. From us. From this pull I can’t explain.
This obsession. This growing addiction that is becoming my husband.