Chapter 13 #2
I flipped the chicken. Added capers and lemon juice. Let the silence stretch while I cooked.
"Julia?"
"Yeah?"
"The secrets you're keeping. Are they the kind that will hurt me?"
My throat tightened.
Yes. If you knew who I really was, why I'm really here, what my family thinks you did—yes. It would hurt you.
"I don't want them to," I said. Which wasn't an answer. But was the truth.
"That's not very reassuring."
"I know." I plated the chicken. Added roasted vegetables. Drizzled sauce. Set it in front of him. "But it's the best I can do right now."
He stared at the plate. At me.
"This looks incredible."
"Wait until you taste it."
We ate. The food was good. The wine was better. The conversation flowed easier than it had before—movies, books, places we wanted to travel.
The careful dance of two people getting to know each other while hiding who they really were.
After dinner, we moved to the couch. Sat with wine and the city lights spread below us through the windows.
"Thank you for dinner," Quentin said.
"Thank you for trusting me enough to let me into your home."
"I'm not sure trust is the right word."
"What would you call it?"
"Hope." He looked at me. "I'm hoping you're who you seem to be. I'm hoping my instincts about you are right. I'm hoping..." He trailed off.
"What?"
"That this isn't going to end badly."
My chest tightened. It's going to end badly. It has to. There's no version of this where both of us walk away unscathed.
Unless...
Unless I could prove Quentin was innocent. Unless I could find who really killed my father. Unless I could convince Carlo before it was too late.
"Quentin—"
"I know you're keeping secrets," he interrupted. "I know there are things you're not telling me. And I know that should scare me more than it does."
"Then why doesn't it?"
"Because every instinct I have says you're worth the risk."
Oh.
We were sitting close. Too close for just boss and employee. Too close for people who didn't trust each other.
Not close enough for what I was feeling.
"This is a terrible idea," I whispered.
"Probably the worst."
"You're my boss."
"I know."
"There are rules. Policies. HR nightmares."
"I know."
Neither of us moved.
"We should set boundaries," I tried. "Keep it professional during work hours. No one can know. Especially not Stone."
"He already suspects."
"Then we'll be more careful."
"Okay."
"Okay."
We both knew we were lying to ourselves.
But we needed the pretense. The illusion of control.
"I should go," I said. But didn't move.
"Julia—"
"Yeah?"
"I want to kiss you."
My breath caught. "We shouldn't—"
"I know. But I needed you to know."
Our gazes collided.
And then, somehow, we were kissing.
His hands in my hair. My fingers gripping his shirt. The taste of wine and want and things we shouldn't be doing.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, I knew.
I knew I was in too deep. Knew I was compromised beyond repair. Knew that investigating Quentin Vanetti while falling for him was the most dangerous thing I'd ever done.
"I should really go," I managed.
"I know."
But neither of us moved.
His phone buzzed. Shattered the moment.
He glanced at it. "Stone. It's..." He checked the message. "He needs me. Emergency."
Reality crashed back.
"Of course. Go. I'll..." I stood, grabbed my purse. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Julia—"
"It's fine. Work comes first."
He walked me to the door. We stood in the entryway.
"This isn't over," he said quietly.
"I know."
One more kiss. Softer. Sweeter. Sad.
"Drive safe."
I made it to my car before the shaking started.
What am I doing?
I'd just kissed Quentin Vanetti. The man my family thought killed my father. The man Carlo might order executed if I couldn't prove his innocence.
My phone buzzed. Text from Silvio: Status update. Monday morning. Be ready.
I stared at the message. Where was Silvio right now? Had he been following me tonight? I texted him back. Quentin knows you’re following me. I told him you were an ex-boyfriend. If his men see you again—you might be sorry.
Shit.
This time, I didn’t hold back: You nearly blew my cover. If it happens again, I’m telling Carlo.
I started my car, checking my rearview mirror for a tail, and drove to my apartment.
At least now I knew that Quentin had eyes on me.
That should stop Silvio from harassing me.
This whole thing was a mess. Carlo wanted results.
Silvio was pushing for a quick conclusion.
And I was falling for the man at the center of it all.
Find the truth. Prove he's innocent. Before it's too late.
But what if I couldn't? What if there wasn't enough time?
What if my feelings were clouding my judgment and Silvio was right—what if I was compromised?
I drove home, mind spinning.
Thought about Quentin's kiss. About Silvio's pressure. About the evidence that kept pointing away from Quentin and toward... someone else.
Someone in my family.
Please don't let it be true. Please let there be another explanation.
But the evidence didn't lie.
And tomorrow, I'd have to face Quentin. Pretend everything was fine. Pretend I wasn't falling for him. Pretend I wasn't starting to suspect the truth was far worse than anyone imagined.
∞∞∞
I arrived at Vitality Ventures at 7:45 a.m.
Fifteen minutes early. Professional. Eager.
Definitely not because I've been awake since 5 a.m, rehearsing what to say to the man I made out with on his couch last night.
My hands shook as I parked. I gripped the steering wheel, took three deep breaths.
You can do this. You're a professional. This is just work. Just another day at the office.
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Navy suit. Hair pulled back. Minimal makeup. Professional armor.
Okay. Let's do this.
The elevator ride felt like an eternity. The receptionist wasn't in yet—too early. The office was quiet.
Quentin's door was open.
He was already there, sitting at his desk, staring at his computer screen. Looked like he hadn't slept well either.
I knocked softly on the doorframe.
He glanced up.
Our eyes met.
And just like that, my brain quit working.
"Hi," I managed.
"Hi." He stood. "You're early."
"So are you."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Same."
We stood there, twenty feet apart, the weight of last night between us.
"Julia—"
"Quentin—"
We both stopped. Almost smiled.
"You first," I said.
He came around the desk. Closer. Not too close. Maintaining that careful professional distance that felt impossible after we'd been tangled together on his couch.
"About last night," he started.
"I know. It was a mistake. We crossed lines we shouldn't have crossed. It can't happen again." The words came out in a rush. Rehearsed after all.
"That's what you think?"
"Isn't it what you think?"
"I asked you first."
I looked at him. Really looked at him. At the slight circles under his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The way he was holding himself so carefully controlled.
"I think," I said slowly, "that last night was one of the best nights I've had in a long time. And also one of the most complicated. And I don't know what to do with that."
"Yeah. That's... yeah." He ran his hand through his hair. "I spent all night trying to convince myself it was a mistake."
"Did it work?"
"No."
My heart jumped. "Quentin—"
"I know what I should do. What the smart thing is. Stone spent an hour with me listing all the reasons this is dangerous." He stepped closer. "But I can't stop thinking about you."
Say something. Say the smart thing. The professional thing.
"I can't stop thinking about you either," I whispered.
"So what do we do?"
"I don't know."
"We could..." He paused. "We could pretend it didn't happen. Keep things professional. Boss and assistant. Nothing more."
"We could."
"But?"
"But I don't think I can."
"Neither can I."
We stood there, caught between what we should do and what we wanted to do.
"This is a terrible idea," I said.
"Probably the worst."
"You're my boss."
"I know."
"And there are... other complications. Things you don't know about me. Things that—"
"Julia." He reached out, took my hand. "I don't care."
But you should. You really should care.
"We should set boundaries," I tried. "Keep it professional during work hours. No one can know. Especially not Stone."
"He already suspects."
"Then we'll be more careful."
"Okay."
"Okay."
We both knew we were lying to ourselves.
But we needed the pretense. The illusion of control.
"I should get to work," I said. "Catch up on emails. Review the schedule."
"Right. Yes. Work." He didn't release my hand.
"Quentin?"
"Yeah?"
"You're still holding my hand."
He looked down like he'd forgotten. Let go quickly. "Sorry."
"It's okay." I stepped back. Put professional distance between us. "I'll be at my desk."
"Julia?"
I turned.
"Last night. I don't regret it."
"Neither do I."
That's the problem.