17. Kate #2
When I return from the kitchen, two mugs in hand, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, hair mussed, eyes dark and unreadable.
He takes his mug with a quiet “thanks,” and then surprises me by pulling me between his legs, resting his head against my stomach like he’s listening for a heartbeat that matches his.
We stay like that for a moment. Just being.
Eventually, he stands, steals a kiss, and says, “Stay here.”
He disappears into the kitchen.
I follow the scent of eggs and bacon to find him barefoot, making breakfast like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a mafia king to do on a sleepy Sunday.
“You cook?” I tease, leaning on the counter.
He glances back, smirking. “Baby, I can kill, seduce, and sauté. I’m very well-rounded.”
I laugh, and it startles both of us — how easy it sounds. How real.
Ten minutes later, we’re on my covered deck, wrapped in soft throws, our plates balanced on our laps as the early fall breeze rolls in off the bay. The water glints. A sailboat cuts across the horizon. The world is slow and quiet.
His pinky finds mine. He hooks it. Doesn’t let go.
I let him.
We sip coffee. Share bites. Brush toes beneath the blanket. He looks at me like he’s still memorizing me. I don’t stop him.
In this moment, we’re not enemies.
We’re not secrets.
We’re just us.
But the thing about mornings like this?
They make the wreckage ahead hurt even more.
The peace doesn’t last.
His phone starts buzzing — once, twice, then a rapid string of alerts. His jaw tightens. He tries to ignore it. Tries to stay in this little cocoon we’ve wrapped around ourselves. But the real world doesn’t care how good the coffee is or how warm the blanket feels.
He finally exhales, setting his mug down with a muted clink. "I have to go."
I nod like it’s fine. Like I understand. Like my heart doesn’t give the tiniest stutter of protest.
Cartels. Casinos. Dangerous men needing answers. It’s his world. The one I keep trying to pretend I can navigate. The one I know I’ve been sabotaging from the shadows.
He stands, smooths his shirt over his stomach, and leans down to kiss me — slow, like he doesn’t want to go either.
“Come to dinner with me tonight,” he says softly. “We’ll keep it quiet. Just you and me.”
My chest tightens.
I could say yes. I want to say yes. After everything we shared last night, dinner shouldn’t feel like another dangerous step.
But it does.
“I already have plans,” I lie, pulling the throw tighter around myself.
Michael goes still.
Not visibly angry—not at first. His expression simply closes. The warmth leaves his eyes, his jaw hardens, and something cold and calculating settles over his features.
“Plans,” he repeats. “Again.”
“Tonight is tapas night at that new Cuban place. Girls’ thing. Loud music. Cheap tequila. It’s tradition.”
The excuse sounds worse out loud.
Michael studies me without blinking. I can almost see his mind working, examining every word, noticing how carefully I avoid his eyes. He knows I’m lying. He has to.
Still, he doesn’t expose me.
He leans back, putting several inches of space between us. It’s a small movement, but it feels like a door slamming shut.
“Fine.”
The word is quiet. Controlled.
Anger from another man might come with raised voices or accusations.
Michael’s lives in the tightening of his mouth, the deliberate way he rises from the chair, and the precise movements he uses to collect his things.
He puts on his jacket and slides his sunglasses into place, rebuilding every layer of armor he let me see beneath last night.
I want to reach for him.
Instead, I remain beneath the throw and watch him retreat from me because I was the one who pushed him away.
He pauses beside the door. For half a second, I think he might turn around and demand the truth. A part of me wants him to. It would be easier to confess if he forced the words out of me.
But he only looks back once.
“Have fun with your friends, Kate.”
There’s no warmth in his voice.
The door closes behind him with a quiet click.
I stay curled in the chair, staring at the place where he stood. I expected relief once he left. Space was what I wanted—air, distance, time to think before I became too tangled in him to find my way free.
Instead, I feel worse.
I hurt him.
Michael would never admit it, and most people probably wouldn’t recognize the injury beneath all that cold control.
I saw it, though. We had begun to move beyond the sex, revealing pieces of ourselves neither of us handed over easily.
He asked me to dinner because he wanted more of that, and I answered by lying to his face.
Again.
There is no girls’ night. No tapas tradition. No loud music or cheap tequila. There’s only me, hiding beneath a blanket and pretending distance will fix something that grows stronger every time he touches me.
I want to tell him the truth.
Not only about tonight. About the land. The shell companies. The meetings I attended to fight the casino expansion. Every secret that could turn what’s building between us into a war.
But I can’t tell him, and I can’t keep letting him closer.
Being with Michael feels like boarding a train with no return route—moving faster every day toward a cliff I can already see waiting in the distance.
I needed space before we reached it.
So why does watching him leave feel so much worse than falling?