3. Boundaries
BOUNDARIES
RILEY
Isat across from Luca at the broad walnut desk in his study, my pen hovering like a weapon above the contract.
Morning light filtered through plantation shutters, striping the pages in tiger bars.
The language was as precise as the man opposite me—no alcohol on premises, no overnight guests, guest-suite keycard logged daily, immediate termination for "inappropriate familiarity. "
I traced a fingertip over that phrase, pulse thudding. Inappropriate familiarity had already happened in a waterfront hotel, my conscience helpfully reminded me. Luca's jaw flexed, as if he heard it too.
"Any clause you'd like amended?" he asked, voice calm but tight.
I cleared my throat. "Just one clarification—'guest suite access ends at nine p.m.' means lights-out or simply no common-area roaming?"
"Common areas are fine," he said. "Ava sometimes wakes for water at ten. I'd rather you be comfortable getting to the kitchen."
Considerate beneath all that iron. I nodded and initialed the margin. The pen slipped against my damp fingers before I signed the final line—Riley S. Brooks—making official the decision my common sense had been protesting since I walked through the door.
Luca rotated the document, reviewed the strokes, then added his signature beneath mine. His handwriting was bold, each letter a controlled punch. When he finished, he laid the pen down with surgical care and extended his right hand.
The instant our palms met, the study seemed to contract. Heat flared from that single point of contact, shooting along my arm to places a handshake had no business awakening. His grip stayed steady while my pulse sprinted—strong, warm, dangerous. We held on a fraction longer than necessary.
"Welcome aboard, Ms. Brooks," he said, formal words scraped raw.
"Thank you, Mr. Santoro." My voice sounded breathy even to me. We released at the same time, fingers brushing in retreat like reluctant soldiers.
He slid a slim keycard across the desk. "Guest-suite access. And this"—a navy lanyard with a discreet panic button—"if Ava bolts toward the docks or you feel unsafe. Press once."
I looped it around my neck, the plastic cool between my collarbones. "Got it."
For a moment, neither of us moved. Outside, gulls cried over the bay. Inside, the silence settled between us, sharp-edged and impossible to ignore.
Professional boundaries, I reminded myself. I squared my shoulders, offered a businesslike smile. "Shall we start the tour?"
His answering nod was crisp, but something flickered in the gray of his eyes before he turned toward the hall.
Luca led the way past the foyer arch, his stride measured, shoulders held like a shield he refused to lower.
I followed, cataloging details the way event planners catalog fire codes: bronze light switches fitted with dimmers; hall sconces faced downward to spare sensitive eyes. Every corner whispered intention.
We reached the kitchen first. It gleamed, but not with the usual stainless-steel dazzle.
Appliances wore matte finishes, cabinets sported chalkboard labels in tidy handwriting—GF Oats, Crunchy vs.
Smooth, Emergency Snacks. A small basket held silicone ear defenders, lavender rollers, and a laminated feelings wheel.
"The lights are on a three-level dimmer system," Luca said, almost apologetically. "Fluorescents were a no-go."
"It feels like a spa that cooks," I murmured, running fingers over a soft-close drawer. Inside, utensils lay on textured liners so they wouldn't clatter. Quiet—the kind you planned, not hoped for.
He guided me to the pantry: rows of Mason jars with color-coded lids—green for Ava-safe, yellow for try-with-support, red for off-limits. Luca opened one green-lid jar, revealing pastel veggie straws arranged like standing soldiers. Precision, love, desperation—all sealed under a Ball logo.
"You did all this," I said, more statement than question.
He shrugged, ears tinting. "Ava's therapist mapped the needs. I executed."
The living room surprised me most. Instead of a fortress of don't-touch designer pieces, a modular sofa in pewter microfiber invited sinking.
Weighted throw blankets lay folded like offerings.
A low shelf held fidget tools sorted by texture—plush, smooth, bumpy.
When my heel sank into a thick rug, the fibers cushioned ankle bones instantly.
Luca watched my silent survey. "After Zoe passed, the noise got...worse," he admitted, voice gravel-low. "I can't fix grief, but I can fix echoes."
The admission exposed something tender beneath all that control. My throat tightened. "You built her a sanctuary."
His gaze shifted toward the living room. "I tried."
He gestured to a sliding barn door. "Guest wing." We stepped inside. Hall light dimmed automatically, pathway strip lights glowing soft amber. He opened a door to reveal my suite—neutral linens, blackout curtains, a small desk with a tactile inlay pattern perfect for anxious fingertips.
On the dresser sat a welcome basket: local honey sticks, earplugs, a card reading Thank you for helping us breathe easier. The signature was Luca's bold scrawl.
Emotion pressed behind my sternum. "You planned this before you hired me."
"Hope is a dangerous habit," he said, meeting my gaze.
A sudden clatter echoed from the foyer—keys spinning across marble—followed by a baritone, "Lu! Your security gate tried to wrestle my truck."
Luca stilled. "My brother," he muttered, half warning, half apology.
Seconds later, Donny Santoro filled the threshold like a Miami sunbeam: dark blond hair wind-tossed, T-shirt stretched across nightclub-owner biceps, aviators hooked at the collar. His gaze ricocheted from Luca's grim set to me, lingering a beat too long.
"Well, well." He whistled low. "You finally hired help. I was starting to think your interview process involved a background check and a hostage negotiation."
Heat crept up my neck, but I flashed my friendliest event-planner smile. "Hi. Riley Brooks—non-supermodel nanny." I extended a hand.
Donny accepted, grin widening. "Donny. Older, better-looking sibling." He waggled his brows at Luca. "Hire two of her and we'll finally balance out your resting-scowl ratio."
Luca's scowl deepened. "She's here for Ava, not your stand-up routine."
I smothered a laugh. "I promise, one of me is plenty to handle."
Donny released my hand, theatrically wiping his chest. "Oof—she's quick, too. I like her." He leaned toward Luca, stage-whispering, "You actually smiled just now. I saw teeth."
"I did not." Luca crossed his arms.
Donny spotted the welcome basket. "Look at Big Bro rolling out the five-star turn-down service. Gift basket, mood lighting—next you'll be printing pillow mints with the Santoro crest."
"Out," Luca ordered, but the edge had dulled.
I tucked hair behind my ear. "No pillow mints needed. The honey sticks are perfect."
Donny's grin softened. "She compliments your basket. Lock this one in, Lu." He tapped an invisible watch. "I gotta bounce—health inspector hitting the club in an hour. Just checking you hadn't barricaded yourself in gloom again."
His tone softened on the last words. Luca's shoulders eased—fractional—but eased.
Donny saluted me. "Pleasure, Riley. Keep him semi-human, yeah?" He disappeared down the hall in a gust of citrus cologne.
Silence reclaimed the guest wing, lighter now. I exhaled.
"Sorry about him," Luca said, rubbing his brow.
"No need. Brothers test fire alarms. His passed."
That hint of a smile returned, this time allowed to stay. "Come on. Ava's probably labeled every crayon by now."
We continued down the hall, Donny's mischief trailing like sparkle dust.
The kitchen smelled of roasted garlic and lemon when we returned.
Maria had arranged dinner prep like a mise-en-place symphony: sauté pan on low, pre-peeled shrimp glistening beside a bowl of rice noodles and steamed zucchini coins.
Ava stood on her learning tower, wooden knife in hand, carefully slicing cucumbers along etched grooves.
"Color order, remember?" she reminded me.
I grinned. "Green skins stay green." I slid into rhythm beside her. "I'm cutting yellow squash. It's soft, not crunchy."
Luca leaned against the counter, arms folded, but his tension had eased. "Need extra hands?"
"You plate," I suggested.
He accepted without comment, arranging everything in tidy sections—noodles here, vegetables there, shrimp last so the sauce never crossed an invisible border. The precision was loving, thoughtful, and clearly exhausting.
When everything was ready, we carried plates to the dining nook: a round table edged with a soft bumper. Luca dimmed the pendant light to a low amber. Ava placed her shell at the twelve-o'clock position and slid into her chair.
I sat beside her. "Tonight's texture schedule," I whispered.
She tasted, nodded, and sorted each bite into her internal system.
Luca watched quietly, something like admiration replacing tension. When he murmured, "Good work, Ava," it carried a softness that made my chest expand.
Mid-meal, Ava tapped her shell twice. "Riley staying whole summer?"
Luca paused. "We're figuring that out, princesa. But she's here tonight."
She considered this, then offered me a zucchini coin. I accepted it like a medal.
After dinner, Luca and I loaded the dishwasher side by side. Our arms brushed occasionally—small, accidental currents.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "She ate more than usual."
"There's power in narration," I replied, daring a quick smile. "And in letting her lead."
Our eyes met over steaming rinse water—heat, gratitude, a hint of something reckless. I stepped back first, drying my hands on a towel that smelled of citrus and restraint.
The house settled into night-quiet, AC hum mingling with distant surf. I'd just slipped on earplugs when a soft, staccato sob drifted through the vent—too muffled for the monitor to catch but unmistakably Ava.
I padded into the hall barefoot. A sliver of light bled beneath her door. Before I could knock, it opened, and Luca emerged carrying Ava against his chest. Her cheeks shone wet; she tugged at her curls in frantic pinches.
"Overloaded dream," he murmured, not surprised to find me there. "Monster made of blender noise."
"I can help," I whispered. He hesitated, then nodded toward the den. A weighted blanket waited on the sofa, folded military-neat. I unfurled it, smoothing the deep-pressure beads while Luca settled Ava in the center. She rocked, heels drumming cushions.
"Deep squeeze," he reminded her, guiding her arms into a self-hug beneath the weight. She complied, breaths ragged.
I knelt beside them, rolling lavender on her wrists. "In for four," I coached, matching Luca's tempo. We breathed together—one, two, three, four—until the tremor in her shoulders slowed.
Luca began a lullaby, words lilting in Italian: Stella, stellina, la notte si avvicina... Star, little star, the night is drawing near. His baritone wrapped the room like dusk. Ava's lashes fluttered; her grip on his sleeve loosened.
When her breathing evened, he eased the blanket higher, anchoring her like a shoreline. She whispered, "Safe now," and drifted.
We lingered a moment, watching the steady rise of her chest. Luca brushed a rogue curl from her forehead with heartbreaking tenderness. Something inside me bent toward him—toward them—like metal to magnet.
He stood, muscles flexing under sleep-rumpled tee, and followed me into the hall. The door clicked shut behind us, sealing the peace.
Dim night lights cast gold halos on the hardwood. Gratitude shone in his eyes, naked vulnerability that hadn't existed hours ago. "Thank you," he said, voice hushed to match the dark. "She trusts fast, but only when it counts."
"She's brave," I replied. "She teaches the rest of us how."
Silence throbbed, electric. The corridor felt too narrow for all we weren't saying. My pulse hammered at the promise in the shadow-soft space between us.
Luca exhaled, stepping back first. "Good night, Ms. Brooks." Formality slipped like armor over exposed bone.
"Good night, Mr. Santoro." I retreated to my suite, heartbeat rattling the lanyard against my ribs. Behind us, the house held its breath, and boundaries felt thinner than the walls.
I closed my suite door, leaned against it, and willed my pulse to slow. Lavender and ocean battled in my lungs. Ten minutes ticked by—too wired to sleep—so I padded to the kitchenette alcove for water.
The hallway was dim, lit only by motion-sensing floor strips. I kept barefoot steps silent, but halfway to the kitchen a shadow detached from the wall. Luca—hoodie thrown over his T-shirt, phone dangling from long fingers.
We both froze, midsentence to ourselves.
"Sorry," I whispered. "Water." I lifted the empty glass like a hall pass.
He nodded, raking a hand through hair that looked as mussed as my thoughts. "Couldn't sleep." His gravelly voice suggested he hadn't tried.
We continued together, steps syncing unintentionally. At the fridge he reached first, retrieving a cold bottle, cracking the seal, and handing it to me. Our fingertips brushed chilled condensation; a spark shot wrist to heart.
"Thank you," I managed, tilting the bottle so moonlight through the skylight haloed it silver.
He leaned back against the counter, arms folding. A vein in his forearm pulsed with restraint. "She settled fast tonight. Because of you."
"Because you've taught her safety rituals," I corrected, but the praise warmed places lavender never reached.
Silence unfurled—not awkward, but charged—like two magnets circling poles. The stainless-steel fridge door reflected us: my shoulder-width stance, his broader frame inches away. Too close for commandments.
I sipped, cool water no match for fever under my skin. "Boundaries," I reminded softly, half to myself.
He nodded once, a soldier accepting orders he wrote. "Right." Yet he didn't move. His gaze drifted to the pulse at my throat, lingered, then snapped back to my eyes—confession and apology fused in gray.
"I should go," I said, stepping sideways.
He mirrored the movement—wrong direction—bringing us briefly chest to shoulder. Breath tangled. My hand brushed the lanyard's panic button, ironic and useless.
"Good night, Riley," he said, voice a raw scrape of gravel and want.
"Good night, Luca." My name on his lips; his on mine—even trade, dangerous currency.
We retreated opposite ways, footsteps muffled by runner carpet. Two doors clicked shut in near synchrony, house returning to hush—but the charged air remained, invisible thread tugging from suite to master wing.
In bed I stared at the ceiling, heartbeat a metronome counting rules I'd already thought unbreakable—and the one I feared would break me first.