Chapter 3
Gabriel
Marshall and I fall into a routine that’s almost comfortable.
He’s outside before eight most mornings, doing inventory, ordering supplies, getting his hands dirty in the garden.
I stay inside, working on a new interior design project for a long-time client who wants their Manhattan penthouse to feel less like a museum and more like a home.
It’s not that we’re avoiding each other; we’re just busy. We take turns going into town for groceries, cooking, and cleaning up, and for a few days I start thinking this might actually work. Just two adults sharing space and doing their jobs.
This morning I’m set up at the kitchen table after breakfast, laptop open, fabric swatches spread across the surface. I’m supposed to be choosing between two shades of cream for the living room curtains, but my attention keeps drifting through the window.
Marshall is outside, shirtless in old tattered jeans and dirty boots.
He’s wearing that expensive watch he never takes off, the one that looks obscene next to the manual labor he’s doing.
His torso is covered in a sheen of sweat that glistens in the morning sun.
I watch the muscles in his back shift as he lifts something heavy, carries it across the garden, and sets it down with care.
I pull my attention back to the swatches.
Not appropriate, Gabriel.
The cream on the left is warmer. The one on the right has gray undertones that’ll make the space feel cold. I type notes into the project file, forcing myself to focus on color temperature and natural light and the client’s north-facing windows.
My gaze drifts back to the window.
Marshall is crouched now, examining something in the soil. The line of his spine curves, and I can see every vertebra, the way his shoulders taper down to his waist. He wipes his forearm across his forehead, and as he tilts his head to the side, I catch the streak of dirt it leaves behind.
Jesus Christ.
In the years since I’ve seen Marshall in person, he’s gotten even more handsome, even more muscular, if that’s possible.
Despite the family money and doing well financially himself, he’s never shied away from manual labor.
If anything, he enjoys it. Getting his hands dirty, getting sweaty.
I have to admit it’s hot, even if I know it’s not appropriate.
I close the laptop and stand, needing to do something other than sit here and stare at my stepbrother like some kind of pervert. I’ve been working for three hours straight, so a break is reasonable. Bringing him water is just being considerate.
I pull open the freezer and grab a handful of ice, drop it into a glass, and fill it with water from the tap. I slice a lemon and add it, because that’s what I’d do for anyone.
The heat hits me the second I step outside. It’s not even eleven but it’s sweltering, the kind of dry heat that bakes into your skin and stays there. I cross the garden, my sandals scuffing against the stone path.
Marshall doesn’t notice me at first. He’s bent over a section near the fountain, his hands deep in the soil, pulling out weeds and old roots.
I stop a few feet away and watch him work.
There’s something meditative about the way he moves, careful and unhurried.
His hands are massive, knuckles scraped and dirt wedged under his nails, and I have the intrusive thought that those hands could probably span my entire ribcage.
I clear my throat.
He looks up, and his face breaks into a grin. My stomach does something weird at the sight of it, a flip that has no business happening.
“Hey,” he says, straightening up and wiping his hands on his jeans. It doesn’t help. They’re still filthy. “I keep forgetting my gloves.”
I hold out the glass. “Thought you could use this.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” He takes it and drinks as if he’s been stranded in a desert for days.
I watch his throat work, the way his Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow, the water disappearing in long, greedy gulps.
A drop escapes the corner of his mouth and slides down his jaw, and I have to look away.
He drains the glass and hands it back. “Thanks. I needed that.”
Our fingers brush when I take it. Just for a second, skin on skin. A zing of electricity shoots up my arm, and I pull back too fast, nearly dropping the glass.
Marshall’s eyes flicker to mine, and I wonder if he felt it too.
Before either of us can say anything, a sound cuts through the morning quiet. A motor. Faint at first, then louder, coming from the other side of the house where the private dock faces the lake.
Marshall frowns. “You expecting someone?”
“No.”
We exchange a look, and then we’re both moving, rounding the side of the villa toward the dock. A small wooden motorboat comes into view as we reach the front.
My stomach drops when I see who’s in it.
Blaine and Vanessa Ashford wave at us from the boat, all smiles and cheer, like this is a pleasant surprise and not a fucking ambush.
“Gabriel!” Blaine calls out, his voice carrying across the water. “And Marshall! What a wonderful surprise.”
I’m frozen. My feet have rooted to the dock, and I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything but stand there and watch as Blaine maneuvers the boat closer.
Marshall steps forward, and I’m grateful because I can’t.
Blaine ties off the boat and climbs onto the dock, extending his hand. “Marshall Grady. My God, it’s been years.”
Marshall glances down at his filthy hands and holds them up in a good-natured refusal. “I’d spare you the handshake. It’s good to see you, Mr. Ashford.”
“Please call me Blaine.” He’s wearing white linen pants and a pale blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Silver hair perfectly styled. Tan from hours spent on boats and golf courses.
He looks like every other rich asshole who summers in Italy, and I hate that I ever found him attractive.
“We saw a new car at the villa the other day and wondered if Philip and Claire had arrived.”
“Just me,” Marshall says. “I’m here to help Philip with the garden restoration.”
“Ah, wonderful! Philip’s been talking about that project for years.” Blaine turns to me, and I force myself to meet his eyes. “Gabriel, you look well.”
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod.
Vanessa climbs out of the boat next, her gaze sweeping over Marshall. “My goodness, Marshall. You’ve grown into quite the man.”
Marshall smiles politely. “Thank you, Mrs. Ashford.”
“I can’t believe it’s been over ten years since we’ve seen you,” Blaine says, clapping Marshall on the shoulder. “How old are you now?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Ah, that’s right. I always forget you’re a year younger than Gabriel.” Blaine glances at me, and there’s something in his expression that makes me want to shove him off the dock. “The two of you were always close, weren’t you?”
Marshall gives me a curious look, and I realize how rigid I’m standing, how tightly I’m holding the empty glass in my hand. I force myself to relax my grip before it shatters.
Vanessa fans herself with her hand, her gaze still lingering on Marshall’s bare chest. “It’s terribly hot out here. Do you boys have anything to drink?”
Marshall glances at me, and I know he’s waiting for me to invite them in. I should. It’s the polite thing to do. But my throat is tight, and my hands are starting to shake.
“We’ve got coffee,” Marshall says when I don’t respond. “Or iced water, if you’d prefer.”
Blaine’s face lights up. “Coffee would be wonderful. I’ve gotten used to drinking espresso in this heat, just like the locals.” He chuckles, indulgent and self-satisfied, and I want to throw the glass at his head.
“Sure,” Marshall says. “Come on in.”
And all four of us head toward the villa. I trail behind, my legs moving on autopilot.
Marshall glances back at me, his brow furrowed. I can see the question in his eyes, but I shake my head slightly. Not now.
We reach the kitchen, and Marshall excuses himself. “Let me grab a quick shower and some clothes. I’ll be right back.”
He disappears upstairs, and I’m left alone with Blaine and Vanessa. My hands are shaking harder now, and I set the glass down on the counter before they notice.
“So,” Vanessa says, settling into one of the kitchen chairs. “How is dear Claire? And Philip? Are they planning to visit soon?”
“In a few weeks,” I say. My voice sounds distant. “With Audrey.”
“Oh, how lovely! Audrey must be, what, sixteen now?”
“Yes.”
“Such a sweet girl. I remember when she was just a baby.”
I move to the espresso machine, grateful for something to do with my hands. I measure out coffee, tamp it down, and fit the portafilter into place. The familiar motions help a little.
“We have lemon meringue pie,” I say, my voice flat. “If you’d like some.”
“Oh, that sounds divine,” Blaine says.
Vanessa waves a hand. “None for me, thank you. I’m watching my figure.”
I set the cups under the spout, pull the espresso shots, and slide them onto the counter. Then I retrieve the pie from the fridge and set it on the cutting board, but the knife slips when I try to cut the first slice.
I hear footsteps on the stairs, and then Marshall is back, hair damp, wearing a clean t-shirt and jeans. He crosses the kitchen and stops beside me, his presence solid and grounding.
“You okay?” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
I look up at him, and it’s a big mistake. He sees it immediately, whatever’s written on my face that I can’t hide.
He reaches up and presses the back of his hand to my forehead. “You feel warm. Did you get overheated out there?”
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t believe me. His eyes narrow, and I can see him cataloging details, putting pieces together even if he doesn’t have the full picture yet.
“Let me do that,” he says, taking the knife from my hand. “Go sit down.”
I don’t argue. I move to the table and sink into a chair, my legs unsteady. Marshall pours me a glass of water and sets it in front of me, his hand brushing my shoulder briefly before he turns back to the counter.
He cuts the pie and serves a slice to Blaine, pours himself a glass of water, and sits across from me. I watch him through a haze, barely registering the conversation happening around me.
Blaine is talking. Vanessa is laughing. Marshall is responding, his voice calm and polite, answering their questions about his work, about the family, about his plans for the garden. It’s all background static. White noise.
I feel nauseous.
Marshall glances at me, checking in. I try to give him a reassuring look, but I’m not sure it lands.
Blaine launches into a story about their villa, about the renovations they had done last year, about the contractor who overcharged them. Vanessa adds details, and Marshall nods in all the right places, playing the part of the interested host.
I can’t look at Blaine. Every time I try, my stomach churns, and I have to look away before I do something stupid, like cry or scream or both.
Marshall’s gaze flickers to me again, and this time concern deepens in his eyes.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Marshall says, cutting Blaine off mid-sentence. He stands and crosses to my side of the table, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I think Gabriel should go lie down for a bit. He’s not feeling well.”
Blaine frowns. “Oh, I’m sure he’s fine. It’s just the heat.”
Marshall’s hand tightens on my shoulder. “I really think he needs to rest.”
I look up at him, and the gratitude I feel is so overwhelming it nearly undoes me. “Yeah,” I manage. “I should lie down.”
Marshall’s eyes search mine. “Do you need help getting upstairs?” he asks quietly.
“No.” I stand, my legs shaky but functional. “I’m fine.”
I don’t look at Blaine or Vanessa as I leave. I can feel their eyes on me, can hear Blaine starting to protest, but Marshall’s voice cuts him off, smooth and polite and final.
I make it to the stairs and climb them one at a time, gripping the banister. My heart is pounding in my chest, my hands still shaking, and all I can think is that I need to get to my room, close the door, and lock the world out for a while.
Just a little while.
Just long enough to remember how to breathe.