Page 65 of Tempting Tessa

The next batch is more complicated. A potential investor wants to schedule a call. My marketing team needs approval on the new campaign assets. The factory is asking about production timelines for the Immortal collection.

I fire off responses, my fingers flying across the keyboard. Yes to the call, schedule it for Thursday. The campaign looks good, but we need to highlight the gold finishes more prominently. Production should start next week, pending final quality checks.

Diving into my calendar next, I add meetings, move others around, and block out time. The purple-highlighted appointments make me smile—they look like they belong here, in this purple-themed office that’s mine-but-not-mine.

Moving over to our project management software, I wait for the dashboard to load to show the status of each product.

The Persephone is in final testing—I blush thinking about how thoroughly Matteo tested it last night. The Ares is ready for packaging design. The Zeus—our most ambitious toy yet—is still in development, with the engineering team working through some vibration issues.

I pick up the phone and dial the production line manager. He answers on the second ring.

“Contessa! Good to hear from you. We’ve been wondering where you’ve been today.”

“I’m going to be working remotely,” I say, glancing around the office that’s quickly feeling less like a prison and more like a sanctuary. “How are things on the line?”

“We’re good. The gold came in for the Immortal collection, and it looks fucking gorgeous. High-end as hell, just like you wanted.”

“Perfect. Send me photos?”

“Already in your email as soon as I said it. And the silicone molds for the Zeus are ready for your approval.”

I pull up the photos as he talks, scrolling through images of the gold accents on the toys gleaming under the factory lights. They look expensive—luxurious, even. Exactly what I envisioned when I sketched them out months ago.

“These are beautiful,” I say, genuinely impressed. “The gold is perfect. Not too yellow, not too brassy. And the weight distribution?”

“Balanced perfectly. We added a bit more heft to the base, like you suggested.”

I spend the next twenty minutes going over every detail, making notes, asking questions. By the time we hang up, my stomach is growling so loudly I’m surprised the production manager didn’t hear it.

I’m deep in the middle of drafting an email to the marketing team about the new campaign when the door opens. I don’t look up, too focused on making sure my tone is professional but not bitchy.

“One sec,” I mutter, fingers still flying. “Just finishing this email.”

The smell hits me before I see him—something rich and savory that makes my mouth water instantly. My stomach growls again, this time so loud it’s practically a roar.

“I think that’s my cue,” Matteo says, his voice a low rumble that sends heat curling through my belly.

I look up to find him standing in the doorway with a tray. On it sits a steaming bowl of what looks like pasta, a glass of water with lemon slices, and a mug of tea that smells like ginger and honey.

“Lunch break,” he announces, setting the tray on the corner of my desk. “You’ve been in here for three hours without moving.”

“Three hours?” I glance at the clock, shocked to find it’s already 12:30. “Damn, I didn’t realize.”

“That’s why I’m here.” He pulls up a chair, positioning it next to mine instead of across the desk. “To make sure you don’t forget to take care of yourself.”

I eye the pasta suspiciously. It looks amazing—silky sauce, fresh basil, what appears to be grilled chicken. But my track record with food today isn’t great.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Carbonara, but made with yogurt instead of eggs. Easier on your stomach.” He pushes the tray closer. “Eat. You need protein.”

I take a hesitant bite, bracing for nausea, but the pasta is perfect—creamy without being heavy, the sauce tangy and bright. I moan before I can stop myself.

“Good?” Matteo asks, his eyes darkening at the sound.

“So good,” I admit, taking another bite. “Did you make this?”

“Not this time. I have a chef,” he says. “But I might have given him some specific instructions.”