Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
It was her third night in.
Noodles on the stove, playlist humming, and Bea half singing as she dug through the drawer for chopsticks.
The music swelled and her hips moved with it. She didn’t hear the first knock.
Only when the water began to bubble and a second knock came—louder, firmer—did she glance up. Fork in hand.
She looked toward the glass-paneled door. Paused. Did a double take.
Rafael?
Hands in his pockets, wearing a polo shirt and dark jeans like he’d just walked out of a fight, or a date, or maybe both.
She reached for the speaker and slowly turned down the volume. His eyes locked on hers through the glass. A storm waiting for permission to enter.
Bea walked over, opening the door cautiously. “Did you get lost?” she asked, glancing behind him like the answer might be standing in the dark.
His gaze dipped before he spoke. Took in her soft blue pajama set. The neckline of her white ribbed tank. Her bare legs. “I was in the area.”
“You don’t live in this area.”
His mouth curved. More heat than humor. “I know this area better than you think.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“I pulled up your file from Monaghan and Stowe,” he replied, as if that were completely normal.
“You what? That’s confidential.” Her grip tightened on the door, eyes narrowing. “You don’t get to just…pull my file.”
He put both hands up, mock-innocent. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Rafael,” she said flatly.
His hands lowered slowly, and the playfulness in his face slipped, like a mask set gently aside. What was left behind wasn’t soft. “I had to check you’re okay. Or if you’re still bleeding.”
Weird pause. Because she wasn’t sure how to respond to his apparently earnest concern.
“I’m handling it,” she said finally, not quite meeting his eyes.
“You sure you’re not just surviving it?”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to, without saying too much. He didn’t push but stood there, watching her. Reading her, as if he could.
Behind her, the pot boiled over, hissing against the stove. She turned to deal with it, and left the door open. Not exactly on purpose, but not by accident, either.
Rafael followed, closing the door behind him. The sound of it clicking shut made awareness lick down her spine.
She drained the noodles, trying to ignore the six-foot-three complication behind her.
Closed door. Night. Alone. Definitely an escalation.
He wasn’t Gage, and he wasn’t a friend. Which made this…a very bad idea.
She moved to the spice rack, choosing her seasonings quickly. She tapped them into the bowl and stirred with one hand while reaching for a fork with the other—
He was there. Right beside her. Opening the drawer she’d forgotten about. Holding out the chopsticks she’d given up on.
Bea’s eyes dropped to his hand. She could see a faint blue stain in his palm, like ink or paint that hadn’t let go. And then scars, faint but unmistakable, crossing his knuckles like faded warnings.
She wanted to ask: What kind of work leaves marks like that? But stopped herself.
“Thanks,” she said instead.
He didn’t answer. Just nodded, then took the fork from her hand and set it beside the sink, like he’d been here a hundred times before.
Bea carried the bowl to the table and dropped it with a thud, knocking down the novel she’d left open beside her laptop. Rafael’s gaze flicked to the title. She picked it up, tucking it upside down next to her laptop.
She opened her mouth to tell him to go.
He spoke first. “Nico’s improved a lot since you started tutoring him.”
She looked at him sharply. “How do you know that?”
“He told me.” His jaw twitched, like he’d been waiting to say it.
“…You know Nico?”
“I do.” He gave a single nod. “Well.”
Bea went very still, fingers tightening on her chopsticks. “No.”
He didn’t answer, just watched her get there.
“You.” Her jaw tensed, but she didn’t look away. “You’re El Jefe?”
“That’s the nickname the boys gave me, yes.”
Suddenly it made perfect sense. El Jefe. Boss. Nico’s mysterious godfather.
His motivational phrases, as quoted by Nico, included such gems as all the important people in the world hire people to think for them. Philosophically intriguing. Academically useless to a sixteen-year-old failing three subjects.
“And how long have you known I was tutoring your godson?” she demanded.
Rafael leaned against the kitchen bench, arms crossed, indulging her interrogation. He gave a little shrug that got right under her skin. “Long enough.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” she ground out.
“Would it have changed your mind about tutoring him?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I’m glad I didn’t,” he said soberly. “He listens to you.”
Bea’s posture faltered a little. She sank into the dining chair.
Her lips parted, poised to argue, but no words came. She reached for the upper hand again, even if her voice was too soft to land it. “Apparently he also listens to El Jefe’s advice about women. His terrible advice about women,” she punctuated.
“He and his friends have sixteen-year-old brains,” Rafael drawled. “I can’t be held responsible for the translation.”
Bea shot him a look. “You do realize they practically worship you?”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Then maybe stop handing out wisdom they’re not equipped to process.”
“That’s why he needs you,” he said, then smirked. “Or who knows how I’ll corrupt him.”
She narrowed her eyes while simultaneously hiding her smile behind a sip of water. Rafael had a way of doing exactly this: make her bristle feel like something far too close to enjoyment.
“You haven’t told him, have you?”
She knew who he meant. “No.”
“You should.”
She leaned back, arms crossed loosely. Not guarded, unsure. “Why?”
She expected a joke. Something flippant. He didn’t give her that.
“Because I don’t like that you’re getting hurt, and that I can’t protect you.” His voice was lower now. Rasped like heat across bare skin. “So let him do it.”
A slow thrum started in her chest and spread outward.
“I don’t need protection,” she said, deflecting from the acute tension of the moment.
“Maybe not. But nothing hits harder than knowing your girl got hurt on your watch.”
Her mind tried to scoff, to file it under Rafael-being-Rafael, but her body wasn’t listening. Her lungs pulled too shallow. She looked away before he saw it. “I’ll think about it.”
He glanced at the bowl of noodles. “Mind if I steal a bite?”
Her fingers tapped the rim of the bowl once, then again. She didn’t answer, just nudged it an inch forward. When he continued to wait patiently, she moved it another inch.
He sat. Used her chopsticks like a pro, taking a large bite. His mouth curved, green eyes lit like a fuse. “You can cook.”
Sure. Two attempts, and three YouTube videos later. But he didn’t need the details.
The sensible voice inside her told her he really had to go.
The problem wasn’t him staying. The problem was that she wanted him to.
Bea stood, crossed to the door, and opened it.
He set down the chopsticks and pushed back the chair. Took his time walking over. Stopped close. “Thanks for dinner.” Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, “Don’t keep getting hurt.”
It wasn’t a plea. It was a directive.
When he was gone, Bea stood in the doorway, throat tight. Wondering when Rafael had become someone she shared secrets with. Wondering when she started trusting him at all.
Two days later, Bea stirred her coffee until it went cold. The kitchen in Nico’s pool house was half sunlit, half shadowed, bright where it touched the counter, dim where she sat.
She should have told Gage already. About El Jefe. About Rafael. Probably should have told him yesterday.
She traced the rim of her mug with a fingertip, restless. Telling Gage that Rafael had visited was bad enough. Telling him why Rafael had visited would mean telling him about Catherine.
And she couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Rafael wouldn’t tell Gage. She was almost sure.
Her phone buzzed.
GAGE: Dinner at mine tonight. 7pm.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
BEA: Could you come to the pool house instead?
Home turf. Maybe that would help. Although she wasn’t sure close proximity to her makeshift spice rack gave her any strategic advantage.
GAGE: Okay.
Dinner was almost over, and she still hadn’t touched her wine.
Across the table, Gage set his knife down deliberately. That gesture—always the start of something he meant to finish.
“You’ve been ready to tell me something since I walked in,” he said, faintly amused. “So tell me.”
Bea’s fingers tightened around her napkin. She’d practiced this all afternoon. “You know all those funny stories I’ve been telling you about Nico’s godfather, El Jefe?” she asked casually. “I found out who he is. It’s…Rafael.”
No real reaction. Mild interest, filing it away. So far, so good.
Bea drew in a breath and pushed on. “And…he came here. To the pool house.”
His eyes moved—just once—cutting across the table like he’d seen the board shift. The silence changed. No longer neutral. No longer safe. She felt it immediately. “When?”
“The night before last,” Bea said.
The pause said everything.
“You waited forty-eight hours to tell me.” Not a question. A judgment.
Her pulse thudded. “I needed time to figure out how to explain it,” she said carefully. “Without making it into something it wasn’t.”
“What was he doing here?”
“Checking up on me,” she said, finally taking a big gulp of wine.
“And why,” he said, voice dangerously even, “did he think that was necessary?”
“Maybe…Nico mentioned I was staying here alone.” It sounded flimsy, even to her.
“What time.”
“Seven.”
“How long.”
“Fifteen minutes.”
The silence had the texture of judgment. She could feel him calculating. What could’ve been said. What could’ve happened.
“Did he touch you.”
“No,” she answered quickly. “Nothing like that.”
Gage leaned back in his chair, watching her. Dissecting every word, every breath. He swirled the last of his wine, then finished it in one drink. “I think it’s time you pack your stuff.”