Page 42 of Coming Home

It was a French sportswear endorsement—a whirlwind week of shooting in Paris for a luxury label that wanted Ralph's specific brand of rugged, athletic intensity on billboards across Europe. Theo had brokered the deal months ago, back when Ralph's public image was clean, untouchable, and uncomplicated.

Before the viral fan video had twisted his protective nature into a headline and turned him into the internet's favorite villain. The contract was far too massive to dismantle, so Ralph had boarded a red-eye on Sunday morning while I stood in his cavernous kitchen, nursing a mug of coffee I couldn't taste, pretending the walls hadn't doubled in size the second his truck cleared the driveway.

He called every day. Sometimes twice.

Once, it was three in the morning Paris time. He'd botched the time difference, and his voice came through rough, thick with sleep.

"You do know what time it is here," I said.

"Nope." A yawn. "Don't care. Did you eat?"

"That's why you called an ocean away at three a.m.?"

"Line by line, Em. Go."

So I gave him the full inventory: the pasta, the vegetables, the cheesecake I wasn't going to mention. He made a low, satisfied sound at the cheesecake anyway.

"Proud of you," he mumbled, already half gone. "Night."

"Goodnight."

And then neither of us hung up for eleven long, suspended seconds.

I was falling for Ralph Brandt.

The campaign commercial aired on Thursday night. I was curled on his living room sofa, buried deep inside the oversized gray fleece hoodie he'd given me that first night. I was eating noodles straight from the takeout box when the screen suddenly shifted during a commercial break.

I nearly choked.

It was thirty seconds of pure cinematic warfare. The directors had opted for slow-motion, because apparently French marketing executives collectively decided that the world needed to see Ralph emerging from a dark pool like some ancient, predatory deity.

Water was captured in hyper-definition, streaming in liquid silver ribbons off the heavy shelf of his shoulders, his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen. His blond hair was slicked straight back, his jawline so sharp it looked dangerous, his entire frame bathed in a warm, amber light that felt intensely intimate.

The camera didn't just capture him; it worshiped him. It lingered on every powerful line, every scar, every inch of his athletic grace. And when he finally turned his head toward the lens at the very end, casting a slow half-smile that managed to be simultaneously possessive and inviting, I instinctively hurled a decorative cushion at the television.

"You can't just do that," I told the vacant room, my pulse ridiculous. "That should be a federal offense."

He was scheduled to land this evening.

I decided, in an act of either supreme bravery or unparalleled delusion, that I was going to cook him dinner.

I unearthed a recipe online for a classic lemon-herb roasted chicken with jasmine rice and caramelized root vegetables. It looked relatively idiot-proof on paper. After a week of airline food, I wanted to set something warm and homemade in front of him the second he walked in.

I approached it like a laboratory experiment. I read the instructions four times. I arranged every single ingredient across the marble island in precise, chronological order, like a surgical nurse preparing an operating tray.

Then, I proceeded to butcher it. Twice.

My first attempt resulted in chicken breasts that possessed the structural integrity and moisture of drywall.

By six o'clock, with the kitchen looking like an active war zone and my self-esteem in critical condition, the third attempt finally yielded something beautiful. The chicken was golden-skinned and perfectly tender, the rice was fragrant and fluffy, and the vegetables actually looked like vegetables.

I was so absurdly proud of myself I could have danced. I set the long oak table with care—two plates, heavy silverware, linen napkins. I even located a couple of tapered candles in a buffet drawer, lit them, immediately panicked that it looked like a desperate plea for a marriage proposal, blew them out, and then relit just one because the overhead track lighting was clinical and everyone looks softer in a flicker of amber flame.

Then I blew it out again because I was overthinking myself into a state of cardiac arrest.

I sat on the edge of the sectional with a book I wasn't reading, my ears straining for the sound of tires on the gravel outside.

The front door swung open at precisely quarter past seven.