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"Everett already took care of it? For the entire quarter?"

"He said that you two would be out of town for a bit. He wanted to make sure that your father was covered. Is that all?"

"Oh… right," I say. "Yes, that’s all. I’ll be in to check on my father tomorrow. Thank you."

We hang up and I stare down at my phone.

Everett said he would take care of it right away and maybe a part of me thought he would be too busy to remember. That I would have to remind him.

Thank God he’s not standing right in front of me because I would probably jump into his arms and kiss him for doing this for me. For taking care of my father and lessening the heavy, expensive rock that’s been sitting in my sternum for all these years. Always worried about paying the next month's rent for him.

Kissing Everett any more than necessary would be confusing and probably unwanted on his end.

My phone dings with a text.

Everly: Don’t forget, designer fitting at 10:30. Driver knows where to go. Wear something cute. You’re about to meet magic.

I instantly head for the shower before I can lose my nerve.

The kitchen is bigger than the apartment I gave up.

That is not an exaggeration.

Stainless steel. Marble. Morning light pouring over surfaces so polished I feel guilty breathing near them.

Matteo is already at the stove when I walk in, moving around the kitchen like a man conducting an orchestra.

"Good morning, Ms. Taylor."

"Morning. But you can call me Aria."

"Aria it is," he smiles.

I slide onto one of the stools at the island. "This still feels like I broke into someone else’s life by accident."

Matteo smiles without looking up. "You’ll get used to it. Just give it time."

"I’ll take your word for it."

He pours coffee just as the door handle to the penthouse jiggles.

A second later, Everett walks in.

He looks exactly like he always does—dark suit, white shirt, tie already perfect, hair in place like the concept of bedhead has never applied to him.

Only his eyes give him away. There are shadows under them like he isn’t getting much sleep.

His expression is more rigid than usual, which I wouldn’t have thought possible if I hadn’t spent six months studying his moods like a survival mechanism.

"Morning," Matteo says.

"Morning."

"Coffee?" he asks Everett.

"Yeah, I could use it."

I move before I think. Grabbing a mug and filling it with coffee and then a sugar and a half and a splash of cream.