30. Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Alex
Ifinish with the last details. Parsley, a squeeze of lemon, a final check of seasoning. The kitchen is already clean. I’ve been wiping as I go, muscle memory kicking in just like it normally does.
After we eat, the only mess left will be the dishes. I’ll take care of those, too.
I dry my hands and lean against the counter for a moment, watching Lina move around her dining space. She lays out plates and utensils with quiet focus and reaches for a pitcher of water from the fridge.
No soda or sweet drinks for either of us. Another small alignment I hadn’t expected. Water works for both of us.
I’m painfully aware of how carefully I’ve had to choose my words tonight.
Every answer measured. Every truth trimmed enough to be honest without detonating the evening.
I understand that I must inform her at some point.
Why I’m really here, why Redwillow wasn’t an accident, why she is at the center of it all.
But not tonight. Tonight matters too much.
She turns away from the counter, and I shift my gaze elsewhere, so she doesn’t catch me staring.
Lina’s hair falls straight down her back, black and glossy, nearly brushing the curve of her ass when she shifts her weight.
She’s in tiny blue jean shorts and a loose T-shirt that reads Reading is Life, the fabric hanging long enough to be misleading. Comfortable. Sexy as fuck.
I’ve been averting my eyes a lot since I met her. It isn’t that I don’t want to look. It’s that if I let myself, she’ll notice.
The truth is, I noticed her long before we ever spoke. The moment Reese sent the file. Her name. Her history. And the photos. Those fucking photos.
Some pulled from her socials—laughing with flour on her hands, curled up in corners of her shop with a book and coffee, sunlight catching freckles she probably doesn’t think about.
Others taken by the professional we contract when a job warrants it.
Clean shots. Neutral angles—meant to assess, not admire. But the photos of her in the gym. Damn.
I knew I was in trouble the second I saw her.
Photos never tell the whole story, but hers came close enough.
Despite that, they didn’t do her justice. They couldn’t capture the way she moves through a space. Or the quiet confidence she carries without false pretense. Or the way strength and softness coexist in her so naturally.
I told myself attraction was irrelevant. Background noise. A hazard I could manage.
I was wrong.
Meeting her face-to-face removed the distance the file created. The way she smells faintly sweet. The way her body is all disciplined and curved. The way she doesn’t try to be noticed—and still is.
So I avert my eyes. Often. Because wanting is easy. Restraint is the part that takes effort.
And if she ever realized how closely I’ve been paying attention since day one, how hard I’ve had to work to keep my focus professional, this job would be compromised. Hell, the problem is—it already fucking is.
What I’m still learning about Lina is written all over her home.
Lina’s house tells me things about her she hasn’t yet told me. Bookshelves everywhere. Lived-in. Stacked. Overflowing. Fiction, mostly. She loves stories. Escape, imagination, and experiencing something more profound than herself.
I’m not much of a reader. Never have been. But I could listen to her talk about books all night.
Earlier, she admitted, half-embarrassed, that she likes “spicy” ones. Said the plots aren’t always great, but the spice makes up for it. She laughed, like she expected judgment. I didn’t give her any.
Because there’s something honest about knowing what you enjoy and not apologizing for it.
She sets the water on the table and looks over at me. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I say, stepping forward with the baking dish.
I set the food down carefully, aware of the quiet between us. Anticipation.
This woman has survived more than most people ever should. She’s kind, sharp, and resilient. And even in something as simple as shorts and an oversized T-shirt, she’s far more alarming to my self-control than anything I’ve faced in years.
I remind myself to focus. Dinner first. Everything else can wait.
We take our seats and I serve Lina first, making sure she gets the larger piece of chicken before filling the rest of her plate. Only after she’s taken care of do I serve myself. The habit is so ingrained I don’t think twice about it.
“This is incredible,” Lina says after her first bite, eyes lighting up. “Like…so good.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
We talk about the food for a few minutes, how the heat sneaks up on you, how the lemon balances everything out. It’s easy—natural. She raises her eyes to me, curiosity soft but genuine.
“Have you ever been to Italy?” she asks, casually as if she’s asking about a favorite restaurant instead of a country that still lives under my skin.
“Once,” I say. “One summer.”
Her brows lift. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I take a slow sip of water, buying myself a second. “I was eighteen. Montalcino. With my brother and my father.”
She doesn’t interrupt. She’s intrigued.
“That summer…” I exhale, the memory rolling in like heat off stone. “It changed a lot of things for me.”
I tell her about the vineyards first—the way they stretch farther than the eye can track, neat rows hiding the weight of centuries.
The smell of earth and sun and wine fermenting in old barrels.
Men who carried authority like a second skin.
Deals made over long lunches that weren’t really about food at all.
“I’d grown up knowing my father was…wealthy,” I say. “But seeing it there—seeing how many people moved because he spoke—it was different. Bigger and heavier.”
I glance at her, making sure she’s still with me.
She nods, like she understands what that kind of gravity may be like.
“So you grew up wealthy?”
“Comfortable,” I say. “Not wealthy.”
Her brow lifts slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“Queens was solid. Good schools. Good food. A neighborhood where people knew your name and watched your back—but they still locked their doors.” A corner of my mouth lifts.
“My mother made sure we never wanted for anything, but she also made sure we knew the difference between having money and being owned by it.”
I pause, choosing my words carefully.
“My father’s world?” I gesture vaguely, as if it exists somewhere off to the side. “That wasn’t my everyday. Not really. Italy was…a visit. A season. A glimpse behind a curtain.”
My eyes shift to my hands, and I remember a sense of insignificance in that house. How quiet everything was—how nothing ever seemed accidental.
“That summer was the first time I saw what his wealth actually meant. Not the house, or the land, or the staff—that was all decoration. It was the way people adjusted themselves around him. The way conversations shifted. The way problems vanished before they were ever spoken out loud.”
I meet her eyes again. “It was lavish, yes. Beautiful. Effortless.” My voice lowers. “And it would’ve been very easy to stay. To let that life decide things for me.”
I exhale a slow breath. “But I was only there long enough to understand the cost.”
Her gaze softens, something thoughtful flickering there.
“So, no,” I finish quietly, “I didn’t grow up wealthy. I learned early what wealth can do to people—especially the ones who think they’re immune to it.”
I pause a beat.
“That summer in Italy,” I add, quieter now, choosing honesty over comfort, “it was also the summer I lost my virginity.”
Her expression doesn’t change—no shock, no teasing. Eager interest.
She raises her eyebrow, smiling at me.
“Her name was Gianna,” I continue. “Our families were close. It was one of those things that was…assumed. Everyone saw it happening, but no one ever judged.”
I smile faintly at the memory. “She was my first. I was hers. No drama. No big declarations. We weren’t in love—we didn’t need to be. We wanted it to be with someone safe. Someone we felt comfortable with.”
I pause, remembering the quietness of it. The lack of pressure. The way it was genuine instead of cinematic.
“It was gentle,” I say. “Sweet. Awkward in the right ways.” A beat. “The way your first should be.”
Lina smiles, warmth spreading across her cheeks. “That sounds nice, actually.”
“It was,” I admit. “It was the only part of that summer that seemed like it belonged to me.”
“But, I learned later that Gianna was supposed to marry my brother. An arrangement.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Oh wow.”
“He didn’t love her,” I say, chuckling. “He was in love with someone else. A local girl. No money or well known name.”
“Nico’s cousin Lorenzo, on the other hand, wasn’t thrilled about Gianna and me.” I laugh. “Apparently, he’d been in love with her for years.”
“Yikes,” Lina says.
I give a slight nod. “That summer was also when my father’s wife realized who I was. I looked too much like my brother, Nico.”
“After I went home, the money stopped. The calls from my father stopped. Everything went quiet.”
Lina’s gaze tightens, brows drawing together. “I don’t understand,” she says gently.
I hesitate.
“She was aware I existed,” I say carefully. “But wanted my existence to be something she never had to see in person.”
Lina tilts her head.
“Oh,” she breathes. She understands.
The room shifts.
“You’re his,” she says carefully. “But not hers.”
I nod once.
“And that made you…” She trails off, searching for the word.
“Proof,” I supply, “of his infidelity.”
Her eyes flicker—not judgment, not pity. Simply understanding settling into place.
“So when you left,” she says, voice careful now, “she couldn’t ignore the truth anymore.”
“No,” I say. “She couldn’t.”
She exhales, shaking her head faintly. “You were only eighteen.”
“True,” I say. “But it took me years to really understand that.”
There’s a brief, comfortable silence.
She didn’t need everything spelled out. She listened until the truth found its own way to the surface.