9. Chapter 9 #2
By the time Naomi checked the clock on her phone, she startled.
“Oh, goodness! I need to get back,” she said reluctantly, rising to her feet.
She gathered their empty cups and the muffin wrapper, feeling the moment slip away.
“Thank you for the coffee. And the muffin. And…” she flushed, “I’m still sorry about the misunderstanding earlier. ”
“I’ll walk you back,” he said, rising immediately. He took the collected trash out of her hands, his movements simple and unyielding.
She tried to protest, but he was already moving, and she found herself falling in step beside him.
On the walk back, he resumed his quiet interrogation, tossing her another question about her past jobs.
But Naomi stopped, shaking her head with mock sternness.
“Nope,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’m not answering any more of your questions.
Not until you answer something. Tell me your last name, and then I’ll answer more. ”
His dark eyes flicked to hers. “Why do you need my last name?”
“Because I’m going to look you up online,” she shot back, half-teasing, half-serious. “You know just about everything about me. But I still don’t know much of anything about you, other than the fact that you’re definitely not just a security guard.”
He eyed her for a long, quiet moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he said, “I’m not that interesting.”
Naomi groaned and rolled her eyes, about to turn away, about to head into the Peterson home, when he moved.
In an instant, his arm was around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. Her breath caught. His body was iron-hard, heat radiating through the thin layers of their clothes. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and she looked up, startled by the intensity in his eyes.
“Did you just roll your eyes at me again?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous—but with the faintest trace of amusement at the edges.
Her lips parted, words tangling on her tongue. “I… think… yes.”
For a long moment, neither moved. His gaze burned into hers, a silent war of wills. She held her breath, every nerve in her body waiting, aching, for what he might do.
But then—he released her. Just like that. The heat vanished, leaving her swaying slightly, desperate and confused.
“Your employer will be home in about twenty minutes with the boys,” he said, stepping back into stoic composure. “Contact me if you have any more issues.”
He turned as if to leave, then stopped. Hesitated. When he glanced back, his mouth curved in the faintest almost-smile. The kind of smile that made her stomach flip.
“And if you make cupcakes again,” he added, “call me.”
And then he was gone.
Naomi stood rooted, staring after him. Call me? What did that mean? Was he warning her not to cause another neighborhood incident? Or… was that his way of saying he liked her cupcakes?
With a sigh, she turned toward the servants’ entrance of the Peterson house, confusion pulsing through her like a second heartbeat. She still didn’t know his last name. She didn’t have his number. And she didn’t know how she was supposed to call him.
She had just finished thinking that when her phone buzzed. Startled, she pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
An unknown number.
Normally, she ignored those—spam, political nonsense, or scam calls. But something in her gut told her not to dismiss this one.
She opened the message.
A slow, unbidden smile spread across her face as she read,
“Here’s my number. Last name is Mancini. Do your worst. Next time we talk, you can tell me what you’ve discovered about me.”
Naomi stared at the text, her thumb hovering over the screen. The revelation hit her like a jolt—Mancini. The name carried weight. Power. Danger. Yet to her, it felt like a secret treasure, handed over freely, as if he’d chosen to trust her with something no one else had earned.
Am I making too much of this? she thought, biting her lip.
Probably. Definitely. And yet, another shiver coursed through her as her memory betrayed her—the press of his body against her back in the coffee shop, the heat of his hands on her hips.
Her face flamed and she squeezed her eyes shut for a second, wishing she could will the thoughts away.
The door opened suddenly. Naomi jumped, shoving her phone in her pocket, pretending to busy herself with the stack of toys by the sofa.
Mr. Peterson’s housekeeper bustled in, her arms already full of groceries. “Boss is on his way back, dear,” she warned briskly. “The boys will be extra rambunctious. They always are after mornings with their father.” She delivered the words like a prophecy, her lips pursed in sympathy.
“Thanks for the head’s up,” Naomi replied evenly, waiting until the woman disappeared into the kitchen with her bags.
The moment she was alone, Naomi pulled her phone back out, her fingers flying before her courage could falter. “Mancini, huh? You’re brave handing over your secrets like that. Let’s see if you’re ready for what I can uncover,” she typed, hitting send before she could overthink it.
Her heart thudded as the little message bubble disappeared. Silence. No reply. She hadn’t expected one—Tony Mancini didn’t strike her as the type to text back immediately. Or maybe ever.
Sliding her phone into her pocket, Naomi straightened her shoulders and turned toward the playroom, readying herself for round two of the day.
The fantasy of strong arms and secret texts gave way to reality: two little boys tearing back into the house, their father’s toxic influence clinging to them like smoke.
The afternoon stretched ahead, long and exhausting. The boys were louder, rougher, testing every boundary she laid down.
But every time her phone buzzed in her pocket—even with nothing but a meaningless notification—Naomi’s heart leapt with the foolish hope that it might be him.
Tony Mancini.
The man who had kissed the top of her head in the middle of a bomb scare. The man who ordered her coffee like it was nothing. The man who left her shaken and beaming with just a single text.
And now, she knew his name.