Amanda
After I don’t know how many turns around the room—smiling, shaking hands, laughing politely at jokes that aren’t funny—I finally manage to convince Carter that I’m exhausted.
The adrenaline from performing is fading now, leaving me shaky and drained.
“Thank you. I’m so glad you’re pleased with my performance,” I reply warmly, even though my cheeks hurt from smiling.
“This little weekend continues tomorrow, of course. A luncheon encore for the guests who arrive in the morning, followed by a champagne breakfast before you return to New York.”
Right, I remember that part.
Two more appearances and then I’m gone.
“I’d love for you to stay the week,” Carter begins, leaning closer.
I smile and gently shake my head before he can get too far into the idea.
“I wish I could,” I say politely. “But I have to begin rehearsals for my next show.”
“Ah yes. The Pax production.”
His lips purse thoughtfully.
“I understand that man is a bear to work with.”
“I guess I’ll find out,” I reply.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Less’s lip twitch slightly, like he’s holding back a comment.
But he stays silent.
Which is probably wise.
Carter finally seems to accept defeat and nods.
“Very well, Amanda. Get some rest.”
“Good night, Mr. Carter.”
Less guides me away from the crowd with a subtle hand at my back, steering us out of the arboretum.
The moment we step into the quieter hallway, the noise of the party fades behind us.
I exhale.
“Thank God,” I mutter.
Less chuckles softly beside me.
“Tired?”
“Dead on my feet.”
The estate is beautiful, I’ll give Matthew Carter that.
The marble floors reflect the soft lighting, and tall windows reveal the dark gardens outside.
Still, all I want right now is to take off these shoes.
We walk in comfortable silence until we reach the guest wing.
Halfway down the hallway, I pause.
My hand lands on the wall as I shift my weight.
Apparently I’m giving away how much my shoes are killing me—my toes in particular.
Less doesn’t ask a single question.
He just bends down—and picks me up.
I squeak in surprise as the floor disappears beneath my feet.
“Hey!”
His arms are solid around me, lifting me effortlessly.
“Y-you can’t just pick me up, Alessio!”
“Why not?”
“Because? Fine, you need me to say it? Because I’m too heavy. I’m fat, dammit!”
He stops walking.
Slowly looks down at me.
“Come again?”
Heat rushes to my face.
“I mean—I’m not exactly—”
“Rusty,” he interrupts, voice firm. “I don’t ever want to hear you talk like that about yourself again. Besides, you’re positively petite compared to me.”
Petite.
Right.
I open my mouth to argue, but he just continues walking like I weigh nothing.
“I thought we settled that,” he adds casually.
“When?”
“In your apartment. St. Patrick’s Day.”
Oh. Right.
That’s when.
I groan softly and hide my face in his shoulder.
“I cannot believe you remember that.”
“How could I forget?”
His voice carries that low amused warmth I remember so well.
“We went out for green beer and corned beef sandwiches.”
I laugh despite myself.
“Wearing matching T-shirts you made us on that cutting machine thingy,” he continues.
I groan again.
“Please don’t remind me.”
It was my crafting phase.
I got one of those Cricut printers—used and at a great discount.
And yeah, I made us shirts.
Huge rainbow.
Giant pot of gold.
The most ridiculous tourist shirts in the entire bar.
“We thought we were hilarious,” he says.
“We were drunk,” I correct.
He chuckles.
“And you insisted we sing Irish songs in the street.”
“That was your idea!”
“Was not.”
“Was too.”
The hallway fills with our quiet laughter.
His arms squeeze around me, and I tighten my grip on his shoulders.
For a moment—just a moment—it feels like those three lost years never happened.
Like we’re back in my little apartment in Queens.
Back when things were easy.
Back before he broke my heart.
Less reaches the suite door and shifts me slightly so he can open it.
He carries me inside without setting me down.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “You can put me down now.”
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he walks straight toward the couch and lowers me gently onto the cushions.
Then he kneels on the floor, and his long hands skim down my legs, gripping my ankles briefly before he’s sliding my shoes off.
My feet sigh with relief the moment the heels come off.
Less stays there, right in front of me. He places the shoes beside the table without breaking eye contact.
“Better?” he asks, and dear Lord, his fingers are busy, rubbing my feet.
I nod.
“Much.”
For a second, neither of us speaks.
The room is quiet.
Soft lamplight.
The faint sound of music is still drifting from the party downstairs.
My breath hitches in my chest, and I realize something unsettling.
Even after everything, being this close to Alessio Figueroa still feels like coming home.
“Less?” I murmur his name.