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"I know you do. I'm trying to keep someone else from closing it first."

Fair.

I let that sit a beat. "Let me know what she says."

We end the call there.

Efficient. Clean. Entirely professional.

Exactly how it should be.

The espresso machine hisses again.

My phone buzzes. Not a call this time. Text.

Jeremy: Board liaison requesting confirmation of the villa booking. Guest names, dates, room configuration. Should I send?

I stare at the message.

Room configuration.

They want to know if we booked one bedroom or two.

Everett: Yes. Send it.

I set the phone face down on the counter and pour another shot of espresso with the distinct awareness that my honeymoon is being audited.

The espresso machine hisses again.

I pour another shot and reach for the cream just as soft footsteps move through the villa behind me.

I look up.

Aria comes out of the bedroom in a white-and-blue sundress, her hair tied back with a bow, leather satchel over one shoulder. She looks brighter than she has any right to this early in the morning. It’s not just rest, it’s as if she’s lit from somewhere inside. Like she woke up in France and remembered she was allowed to want things.

She's humming under her breath.

Actually humming.

I don't think I've ever seen her this happy.

That realization lands hard enough to make me still.

She barely notices me at first. She walks straight to the counter, spots the second cup I poured and forgot about, and reaches for it.

Then she glances at me. "Sorry. Is this yours?"

"Yes."

She pauses with the cup in hand, looking from it to me.

Then, without asking, she reaches for the sugar bowl. I watch her put in one cube, and half of another. She adds a small splash of cream, stirs it, sets the spoon down, and hands me the cup like she's done it a hundred times.

Which, technically, she has.

I take it from her, our fingers brushing against each other. Her eyes flick to mine for half a second, then away.

She adjusts the satchel on her shoulder and moves to the pastry plate.