6. Gia

6

GIA

I lie in the luxurious bed, staring at the ornate ceiling of Max's guest room. I’m unable to quiet my racing mind. I lie awake, thinking about Max's behavior tonight compared to his visit last Christmas. Back then, he'd kept a polite distance, speaking to the kids but never lingering. Tonight felt different.

The Max who helped make pizzas with the kids tonight wasn't the same man who'd kept his distance during the holidays. That Max had been all business, building walls between us with every interaction. But here, in his domain, he’s not cool and aloof. The way he'd smiled at Dario when he'd spread too much sauce, or how he'd praised Daniella’s artistic display of pizza toppings, those weren't the actions of someone maintaining professional distance. Even the playroom he'd set up showed thought and care beyond mere obligation.

Maybe it’s because we are in his territory now. In New York, he was in my home, Nic’s back yard. Here in Vegas, in this house he'd built for himself, perhaps he feels more in control.

Or maybe… maybe it’s because I've finally stopped throwing myself at him like some lovesick teenager. Last year, each time I tried to talk to him, he probably thought I was going to hit on him again. Assuring him today that I was over my crush may have put him at ease.

The problem is, as I replay the day in my mind since arriving here, I know my feelings for him are still alive and well. How warm and strong his hand was when he helped me off the plane. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed at the kids’ antics. He seems more like the Max I remember. The Max who’d been my friend when I needed him. The one who was at my side whenever danger lurked.

At eighteen, when everyone else treated me like a commodity to be traded in marriage, Max saw me as a person. He listened when I cried about Aldo, offered quiet support when my father's temper flared. Even now, the memory of his arms around me during those stolen moments makes my chest ache.

I press my face into the pillow, frustrated with myself. I'm not that naive girl anymore. I'm a mother, a businesswoman. I've built a life beyond those feelings.

But watching him with Dario and Daniella tonight, the tenderness in his eyes, the natural way he connects with them, it’s hard to keep my emotions in check.

"Look, Mama, Uncle Max made a face with his pepperoni!" Daniella had squealed.

Uncle Max. The title should feel right. He’s my godfather, after all. But something twists in my chest every time they say it.

I’m grateful the kids are having the time of their lives on this grand adventure. Earlier as I tucked the exhausted twins in bed, Dario asked if they could stay forever.

“This isn’t our home,” I’d answered.

“Why are we here, then?” he asked.

I couldn’t tell him about the danger. “Like I said, it’s just a fun adventure. But eventually, we’ll go home.”

“When?”

Children and their constant questions. “I don’t know.”

I’m relieved that my babies are safe here, protected within Max's fortress of a home, free to just be children. Whatever shadows lurk back in New York can’t touch them here.

Before I came to bed, I took a moment on the back patio, breathing in the crisp desert air. Looking up, I saw so many stars. Back in New York, the city lights wash out most of the stars, but here they pierce through the darkness with startling clarity. I can see why Max likes it here. The openness. The freshness. The privacy. I realized at that moment that I still held resentment that he’d left six years ago. I’d been angry he hadn’t saved me from my marriage to Aldo. That he hadn’t stayed for the kids. But of course, he couldn’t defy my father. And he didn’t know about the kids. He still doesn’t. And it’s clear to me that he won’t. This is his life now. It’s not in New York. It’s definitely not with me.

Now in bed, sorting out all these thoughts and emotions, I wonder how long the kids and I will need to be here. Weeks? Months? Knowing that Max is my protector, my friend and only my friend whose life is here, doesn’t stop my heart from wanting more. The longer we’re here, the more difficult it will be to keep my heart in check.

I send a silent prayer that Nic will figure out who’s after me. It’s followed by guilt. Nic has a wife and kids. He shouldn’t have to continue to dedicate so much time to me. I wonder if there’s something I can do to help figure out who is stalking me. It won’t be easy to do from here, but I know neither Max nor Nic will let me return to New York until the stalker is caught.

Deciding that ruminating on all the challenges in my life isn’t going to fix anything, I close my eyes, willing sleep to come. But as it does, memories of Max filter in with the dreams. I see him on the tarmac, walking toward me looking so handsome it makes my chest ache.

Instead of taking my hand, his hands cup my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks with the same tenderness he’d used six years ago when I asked him to touch me. His dark eyes hold mine, filled with desire and… dare I say love?

"Gia," he whispers, and my name on his lips sends shivers down my spine. His cologne wraps around me and I press closer, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against mine.

He kisses me like he did that first time, slow, deep, claiming. My fingers tangle in his hair as his hands slide down my back, pulling me flush against him. The moment on the steps of the plane fades away, replaced by tangled sheets and heated skin.

"I've missed you," I breathe against his mouth. His response is a growl that vibrates through my body. His lips trail fire down my neck, across my collarbone. Every touch ignites something primal inside me, something I've tried so hard to forget.

The dream shifts, fragments. Max's hands mapping my body like he's memorizing every curve. The taste of his skin under my tongue. The way he whispers my name like a prayer. My legs wrapped around his waist as he moves inside me, each thrust bringing me closer to the edge.

It feels so real, the weight of him above me, the scrape of his stubble against my neck, the perfect rhythm we find together. My body arches into his, chasing release as his fingers dig into my hips. More, more, more…

I jolt awake, my body still humming from the dream. The empty bed around me feels cold compared to the heat of my dream. I press my face into the pillow, trying to shake off the lingering sensations, the phantom touch of Max's hands. Frustration replaces pleasure. Even in sleep, my body betrays me, remembering what it feels like to be his.

What's wrong with me? I'm here because someone's threatening me and my children, not to indulge in teenage fantasies about my brother's best friend. My face burns as I remember how real it felt, how my body responded to dream-Max exactly like it did that night years ago.

The shame settles heavily in my stomach. I'm not that naive eighteen-year-old anymore, throwing myself at him. I'm a mother now. A widow. I should be beyond this.

But my traitorous body still tingles from phantom touches, and I can almost smell his cologne. The worst part is knowing he's just down the hall, probably sleeping peacefully while I'm here burning up from inappropriate dreams about him.

I slip out of bed and pad to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. My reflection shows flushed cheeks and bright eyes, evidence of where my subconscious took me. God, how am I supposed to face him at breakfast?

I lean forward, facing my reflection to have a stern talk with myself. I'm here for protection, nothing more. Max is doing his duty to Nic, to my mother's memory. The last thing he needs is me complicating things with leftover feelings from the past.

I return to the bedroom, checking the clock. It’s seven thirty. The kids normally wake between six thirty and seven. But then I remember their inner clock is on New York time, which is ten thirty. Is it possible the busy day has caused them to sleep in?

I make my way down to their room, pushing the door open, expecting to see their sleeping forms tucked under the colorful comforters Max provided. The beds are empty, covers thrown back haphazardly. Daniella's stuffed unicorn lies abandoned on the floor.

"Dario? Daniella?" I look around in case they’re playing hide-n-seek. Ice spreads through my veins. The stalker's threats flash through my mind even as I know we’re safe here.

I hurry to the playroom. Empty. The bathroom. Empty.

“Dario! Daniella!” I race down the hallway toward the center of the house, which suddenly feels massive, with too many places where someone could hide.

I reach the large living area, scanning it and the open kitchen. I stop short as I see the kids standing on kitchen stools at the island, faces dusted with flour as they help Max make pancakes. Dario concentrates on stirring batter while Daniella carefully measures chocolate chips. Max towers next to them, flipping pancakes on the griddle.

"Look, Mama! We're making breakfast!" Daniella beams at me, her dark curls wild around her face.

Max looks up, his expression shifting from contentment to concern as he takes in my disheveled state. “Something wrong?”

I pull myself together. “I… ah… I worried when I didn’t see the kids in their room.”

He arches a brow. “Why? They can’t go anywhere.”

“Mother’s fear is often irrational. I’m sorry if they woke you?—”

He shakes his head. “I was already up.” Now that the panic is gone, I’m able to take in the man who is cooking with my kids. The morning sun streaming through the windows catches the silver at his temples, highlighting how the years have only made him more handsome. His dress shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms dusted with flour.

“We made some for you too,” Dario says.

Max's eyes meet mine over their heads, warm and inviting, and for a moment I glimpse what could have been—lazy Sunday mornings, family breakfasts, the four of us together. The yearning hits so hard it steals my breath all over again.

I force myself to look away. Seeing it makes it difficult to remember the reality of our situation. It would be so easy to let myself fall back into those feelings, to pretend we could be a real family.

But we're not. We're here because someone's threatening us, and Max is just doing his duty as my godfather. I can't let myself forget that.

But God, it’s painful to have to lie to him. The truth is, a part of my heart will always belong to Max Giraldi, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise.