Biscotti & Boundaries
Marlow
Dinner at Daddy’s was exactly what I expected—same old stories, same pinot noir, same half-hearted jabs about how I work too much and how hedefinitelydates too little. I let it play out for as long as I could, then faked another bout of citrus-induced nausea to cut the evening short.
Still, I didn’t leave empty-handed. I packed up a plate of the seared ahi tuna and mango ceviche and told myself I was just grabbing leftovers like always. But the truth is, it was for Declan. And thankfully, Daddy didn’t press.
We live on opposite sides of the building so he also misses the fact that I don’t go home. Not to my home at least.
Marlow’s got a man.
The drive back to Declan’s feels different.
It doesn’t feel like everything is on fire and I’m a decision away from detonation,different.More like the kind of different that creeps in slowly and it’s practically intoxicating because it feels a littletoogood.
The sky’s an inky, late-night blue, the streets are quiet, and there’s this maddening hum of contentment settling in my chest like it belongs there.
And it should piss me off.
Because I’m supposed to be spiraling. I should be anxious, furious, and halfway to drafting an exit strategy in my head.
But instead, I feel calm. Steady. Like something inside me exhaled for the first time in a while.
And for a second, that calm—thisdifferent—doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like something I’ve been needing all along and never even realized how much.
Until the inevitable gut-punch reminder slams into me.
Thiskind of different?Thisbrand of forbidden, secret-marriage, emotionally reckless different can burn everything I’ve worked for to the ground. Not just my life—but the lives of people I care about.
And that’s the thing aboutdifferent—it rarely shows up with flashing lights or sirens. Sometimes, it sneaks in soft, wrapped in a slow smile, barefoot in a kitchen, and waiting to undo you with something warm and sweet and utterly inviting.
Because the second I step through the front door and close it behind me, that’s exactly what hits me.
A wave of buttery warmth wraps around me, thick with sugar and something citrusy, like orange zest and vanilla had a baby and baked it in heaven. It’s not store-bought. It’s not from a box. It’s rich and real and homemade. There’s honey in it. Almonds, too. Maybe even a little bit of magic dusted in powdered sugar.
And in an instant I know exactly wheredifferentis hiding tonight.
Declan is standing at the counter, shirtless, his forearms dusted in flour, focused with the same intensity I’ve seen him bring to the field. A tray of golden cannoli shells cools beside him, while another batch bakes in the oven—judging by the smell alone, they’re nearly done.
The counter is a perfect storm of pastry prep: a bowl of ricotta filling piped with care, strips of orange peel on the cutting board, and a snowdrift of powdered sugar waiting on a plate.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, stepping into the kitchen.
He glances up, flashing a too-proud grin. “Welcome home, wife. I told you I’d make dessert tonight.”
“Right,” I mutter, eyes trailing down the line of his body, “I just assumed you were joking. And would be wearing more clothes?”
He grins, pleased with himself. “Do you like it?”
“Yes. I love cannoli,” I admit, stepping closer. “I’ve been wanting to learn how to make it for years.”
I can see the flicker of disappointment in his eyes when I sidestep the real bait in his question. He wanted a reaction. A blush. A flirty comeback. Maybe even a confession about how good he looks half-dressed and dusted in flour.
But I won’t give him that.
He rounds the kitchen island, stepping in close—too close—and reaches up above my head. I realize there’s a sleek rack of hanging kitchen tools just overhead, but the way he moves feels more like a hunter closing in.
“I can teach you,” he says.
