“I’m not—” He stopped, visibly recalibrating. She could practically feel the moment he realized that arguing with Beawas like arguing with a hurricane. “I’m going back to the kitchen.”
“Smart man.” Bea watched him retreat. “He’s going to be fun to break.”
“Please don’t break my accidental mate. I have to live with him.”
“No promises.”
The door chimed again before Marina could respond. Mrs. Whitmore, eyes bright with curiosity. Mr. Callahan from the bait shop. The Blackwood twins, who should definitely be in school. Half the town, it seemed, filing in to stare at the dragon in Marina’s kitchen.
Alessandro looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.
“Ground rules,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the stairs. “Now.”
In the apartment, she shut the door and leaned against it. Alessandro’s relief at escaping the crowd flooded through her, and with it, grudging gratitude that she’d been the one to end it.
He really does hate being watched.
“Designated spaces,” she said. “You stay on your side, I stay on mine. The couch is your territory. The bedroom is mine. We meet in neutral zones only when necessary.”
“Neutral zones?”
“Kitchen. Bathroom. The three square feet of hallway connecting them.”
“Agreed.”
“Bathroom schedule. I shower first at four-fifteen. You can have it after. We do not comment on each other’s shower habits.”
“I wasn’t planning to comment on your shower habits.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” She ticked off another finger. “Third: no discussing feelings. We can sense them whether wewant to or not. That doesn’t mean we have to talk about them. If you’re upset, I’ll know. I don’t need a monologue.”
“I don’t monologue.”
“Good.”
“Though I’d argue that you’re currently monologuing about not monologuing.”
She glared at him. He looked almost smug.
Alessandro was quiet for a moment. Then: “I have one addition. If one of us is in genuine distress, not annoyance, not frustration, actual distress, the other should know. For practical purposes.”
It was reasonable.
“Fine,” she said.
“Fine.”
They stood there, five feet apart, the bond humming between them. The afternoon light slanted through her small windows, catching the flour still visible on his collar, the exhaustion still visible in his eyes.
“This is still a nightmare,” Alessandro said.
“The worst,” Marina agreed.
But when they went back downstairs and he spent the next three hours helping her work, she started to wonder if nightmare was the right word.
He carried flour bags without being asked, stacking them with a neatness that spoke to hidden depths of organization. He restocked the display case, arranging pastries with unexpected care. When a customer asked for a recommendation, he actually gave one. “The lemon bars are surprisingly good,” and satisfaction hummed warm and smug across the bond when the customer agreed.
His designer shirt accumulated a fine layer of powder. His perfect hair fell across his forehead. His sleeves got rolled up atsome point, revealing forearms that Marina absolutely did not notice.
