Chapter 3: Dinner with Consequences
The whisper hung in the air between them, a live wire strung from her lips to his ear. Your father isn’t the only one who did research. The scent of her—lemons, sugar, and something indefinably, frustratingly her—lingered even as she pulled back.
Tristan didn’t move. His blue eyes, fixed on the polished mahogany of the table, saw nothing. The perfect osso buco, the rich scent of rosemary and slow-cooked wine, turned to ash in his mouth. It wasn’t the fact she’d known about the dish. It was the intimacy of the delivery. The soft brush of her breath against his skin, a weapon disguised as a secret.
Across the table, Colt watched, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. He’d heard the whisper. He saw the rigid line of Tristan’s shoulders, the absolute stillness that always preceded a storm. Colt set his fork down slowly, the click of silver on china absurdly loud.
Jamie straightened up, wiping her hands on a dish towel tucked into the waistband of her jeans. She’d changed out of the provoking shorts, back into simple, dark clothing. The contrast was its own message: I can wear any skin you put on me.
“The meat should fall off the bone,” she said, her voice conversational, as if she’d commented on the weather. “Aunt Celia said you used to suck the marrow out as a kid. Hope I did it justice.”
Tristan’s head turned, slow as a predator tracking prey. The warmth from the kitchen had brought a flush to her cheeks, made her blue eyes brilliant. She wasn’t smiling now. She was waiting.
“Get out,” he said. The words were quiet, devoid of all emotion.
Colt’s eyes flicked to Tristan, a warning. “Tristan—”
“Out of the room, Jamie,” Tristan repeated, each syllable a chip of ice. “Now.”
She held his gaze for a three-count that felt like a lifetime. Then she gave a small, neat nod. She untied the towel, folded it, placed it on the sideboard, and left without a backward glance. The swing door to the kitchen whispered shut behind her.
Silence crashed over the dining room.
Colt let out a long breath. “Okay. That just happened.”
Tristan pushed his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. He walked to the sideboard and poured two fingers of whiskey from a crystal decanter, downing it in one burning gulp. “She’s playing a game she doesn’t understand the rules to.”
“She’s learning them fast,” Colt countered. He finally took the bite of osso buco. The flavors exploded—perfectly balanced, rich, deeply nostalgic. “Jesus, this is good. And the research? That’s not just cooking. That’s a statement. She’s telling you she’s not a passive asset. She’s gathering intel.”
“She called my aunt.” Tristan poured another drink, his back to Colt. The vulnerability of it, the invasion of a safe, neutral memory, felt more violating than if she’d ransacked his office. “She’s using my family against me.”
“She’s using the only tools she has,” Colt said, his tone pragmatic. “You think she wants to be here? Ben bought her debt and dropped her in a gilded cage. She’s got spirit. I told you we should see what she’s made of. Well, now you know. She’s made of sharp edges and nerve.”
Tristan turned, leaning against the sideboard. The whiskey was a warm pit in his stomach, doing nothing to quell the riot inside him. “She’s a liability. An unpredictable variable in an already fucked equation.”
“Or,” Colt said, taking another deliberate bite, “she’s an opportunity. Think about it. Benedetto sent her to unbalance you, to be a pretty distraction. What if she’s the opposite? What if she makes you sharper?” He gestured with his fork. “She’s already got you completely unhinged, and she’s been here less than forty-eight hours. That’s a power. We could use that.”
“Use it how?” Tristan’s voice was a low growl.
Colt shrugged. “People will underestimate her. They see the maid. The girl. They won’t see… whatever this is. That’s an advantage. And let’s be honest, the house hasn’t been this interesting in years. Even Neo likes her.”
As if summoned, the massive mastiff padded into the dining room from the kitchen door, his nails clicking on the floor. He went straight to Tristan’s abandoned chair, sniffed at the osso buco, and gave a soft whuff of appreciation before lying down with a contented sigh. A tiny white paw appeared from under the table, followed by Muffin, who hopped up and curled against the giant dog’s side.
Tristan stared at the bizarre, peaceful tableau. His attack dog, his fortress, his carefully controlled world—all of it was being gently, stubbornly disarmed by a redhead with a shih tzu and a death wish.
“She stays in the east wing,” Tristan said finally, his decision made. “She does not approach the west wing, the study, or the basement. She does not answer the private lines. She cooks, she cleans, she exists. And you will keep her occupied.”
Colt’s green eyes gleamed. “Occupied.”
“Not like that,” Tristan snapped, but the denial lacked its earlier conviction. “Find her something to do. Something that keeps her out of my way and out of trouble.”
“Gardening,” Colt said suddenly. “The walled garden. It’s a jungle. No one goes out there. It’s pure busywork. And it’s outside, away from everything.”
Tristan considered it. The walled garden was a relic from his grandmother’s time, all overgrown roses and choking ivy. It was contained, visible from the house, and utterly useless. “Fine. Tell her. And make it clear: boundaries aren’t a suggestion.”
Later, the dinner dishes were cleared, the kitchen spotless. Jamie was on the floor of the living room, attempting to teach Muffin to ‘sit’ for a piece of carrot. The dog was mostly just trying to climb into her lap.
Colt found her there. He leaned in the doorway, watching for a moment. She looked younger like this, engrossed in the simple task, a smudge of dirt on her temple from where she’d pushed her hair back.
“You’ve been assigned a project,” he announced.
Jamie looked up, her expression guarded. “Oh?”
“The walled garden out back. It’s a mess. Tristan wants it cleared, sorted, whatever. It’ll give you something to do.” He walked in and sat on the arm of the sofa, his posture relaxed. “He also said, and I’m paraphrasing here, that if you so much as look at the west wing, he’ll have you buried in it.”
Jamie gave Muffin the carrot. “Noted. A gardening sentence. Very feudal.” She stood, brushing off her knees. “And my research? Was he impressed or just pissed?”
“A spectacular blend of both,” Colt admitted, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ve got a real talent for finding the nerve and jumping on it with both feet.”
“It’s a gift.” She met his eyes. “I’m not here to be a ghost, Colt. I can’t just fade into the curtains.”
“I’m starting to see that.” His gaze was appreciative, frank. “The osso buco was incredible. Seriously. Thank you.”
The simple, unprompted thanks disarmed her more than Tristan’s fury had. She shrugged, looking away. “It’s just food.”
“It’s not, and you know it.” He stood. “Tools are in the garden shed. Start tomorrow. Try not to unearth any bodies. We tend to use the lake for that.”
He left her with the joke hanging in the air, unsure if he was kidding.
The next morning, Jamie pushed open the creaking iron gate to the walled garden. Colt hadn’t exaggerated. It was a beautiful, heartbreaking ruin. Rose bushes grew in wild, thorny tangles, competing with strangles of ivy. A stone fountain, green with algae, stood silent in the center. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying petals.
She found the shed, its wood rotting. Inside were rusted tools, clay pots, bags of petrified fertilizer. It was a monument to neglect. She selected a pair of shears that still worked and got to work.
The physical labor was a relief. It required no strategy, just effort. She attacked the ivy, hauling down great, tearing veils of it. She pruned the roses with ruthless care, her hands soon scratched and dirty. The sun climbed, warming her back. For a few hours, she thought of nothing but the next branch, the next root.
She didn’t hear him approach. She was elbow-deep in a thicket of dead brambles, sweating through her t-shirt, when his shadow fell over her.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
Jamie started, banging her head on a low stone bench. She blinked up, shielding her eyes against the sun. Tristan stood there, dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, looking out of place amidst the chaos. He held two bottles of water.
“Is there a right way to pull weeds?” she asked, sitting back on her heels.
“You’re just hacking. You need to get the root.” He stepped closer, frowning at the pile of greenery beside her. “You’ll never win if you just fight the visible part.”
The metaphor was so blatant she almost laughed. She took the water he offered, the cold bottle slick with condensation. “Thanks.”
He didn’t leave. He stood, looking around the garden as if seeing it for the first time. “My grandmother planted this. She loved roses. Red ones. Called them her ‘little soldiers.’” He took a sip of his own water. “It got out of hand after she died.”
Jamie followed his gaze, imagining the order beneath the wildness. “It’s still in there. The structure. It’s just buried.”
Tristan looked down at her, his expression unreadable. The sun caught the gold in his dirty blonde hair. For a moment, he wasn’t the Don. He was just a guy in a garden, remembering his grandmother. “Why did you really do it? The dinner. The whisper.”
Jamie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “To prove I’m not just furniture. To prove I see you, even if you’d rather I didn’t.”
“Seeing me is dangerous,” he said, his voice low.
“So is being seen by you,” she shot back softly. “Yet here we are.”
He stared at her for another long moment, then gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. “The root, Jamie. Not just the leaves.” He turned and walked back toward the house, leaving her alone with the roses and the echo of his warning.
As the afternoon wore on, Jamie found a rhythm. She also found something else. Buried under a particularly thick mat of ivy near the fountain, her fingers closed around something cold and smooth. She pulled it free.
It was a small, ceramic garden gnome, chipped and faded. It was ugly, grinning a foolish, lopsided grin. It was so utterly
It was ugly, grinning a foolish, lopsided grin. It was so utterly out of place in this world of sharp edges and cold marble that a short, shocked laugh escaped her. She set it on the edge of the fountain, its cheerful absurdity a silent protest against the garden’s neglect.
She finished clearing the section, the sun now high and hot. The water bottle Tristan had brought sat untouched on the stone bench, beading with condensation. She looked at it, her throat parched, but she left it there. Accepting his water felt like accepting a truce she wasn’t sure existed. Wiping her hands on her dirty jeans, she gathered her tools and headed inside.
The silent, cool kitchen welcomed her. She scrubbed the dirt from under her nails first, the water running brown in the sink. Then she went to the massive refrigerator, pulling the door open to survey its meticulously stocked contents. Her mind, still buzzing from the physical labor, shifted gears seamlessly into calculation.
Dinner. It was her next move, her next communication. She pulled out a notebook she’d found in a drawer and began jotting down a weekly plan. Monday: Tristan’s favorite rigatoni alla vodka, the way his mother used to make it, with a crisp Caesar salad—Colt’s preference for something light on the side. Tuesday: herb-crusted rack of lamb for Tristan, with truffle risotto because Colt had mentioned a love for it once in an old magazine interview she’d dug up. Every meal was a deliberate fusion, a dish for each of them, a reminder that she was paying attention to both.
She found a bag of dark chocolate chips and butter, the ingredients for his favorite triple-chocolate brownies. The sweet treat was the easiest piece of intelligence. Benedetto had once scoffed that his son’s only weakness was a sugar rush. As she melted the chocolate, the rich scent filling the kitchen, she sat at the island stool, her energy finally settling.
The rhythmic stirring loosened something in her. The quiet, the mundane task, let the old memories surface. They used to push her on the tire swing in her backyard. Not out of kindness, but because their fathers—Benedetto, Anthony, and her own dad, Marcus—stood clustered by the grill, voices low, and had ordered them to “keep the little one busy.” She’d been eight. They were thirteen, all elbows and scrawny limbs and towering annoyance.
She could still see them: Tristan, even then with those serious blue eyes, shoving the swing with a perfunctory grunt before turning his back to light a stolen cigarette. Colt, with his easier smile, would sometimes talk to her, but his attention was always split, listening in on the fathers. She was background noise. An obligation in pigtails. They’d ignore her until she went inside, chasing the feeling of being acknowledged and finding only their indifference.
From the shadowed doorway of the study, Tristan and Colt watched her. She was motionless at the island, the wooden spoon forgotten in the bowl, her gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance. The untouched water bottle from the garden still sat by the sink, a quiet testament to her refusal.
“She hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast,” Colt murmured, his voice low. “I saw the lunch plate. She picked at it, then scraped it into the disposal.”
Tristan’s eyes didn’t leave her. He saw the fierce concentration in her stillness, the way her shoulders were set not with relaxation, but with a perpetual, vigilant readiness. “She’s running on pure will. Calculating every move, every word. Trying to protect herself by outthinking the room.”
Colt nodded slowly. “She thinks she’s a ghost we don’t see. A new player on the board.”
A slow, cold smile touched Tristan’s lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “She thinks we don’t remember her.” He finally turned his head to meet Colt’s gaze. “My father didn’t find her in a pile of resumes last week, Colt. He picked her for me years ago. I remember everything about her. The red hair. The way she’d get this stubborn line between her eyebrows when we ignored her.” He looked back at Jamie, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “She was the only kid who ever looked at me like I was the monster, not the prince. Even then.”
In the kitchen, Jamie blinked, the memory dissolving. She gave the thickening batter a final stir and reached for a baking pan. The click of the oven door echoed in the quiet.
Upstairs, Colt studied his friend’s profile. “So what’s the play?”
Tristan watched Jamie grease the pan, her movements efficient and sure. “We let her think she’s playing her game,” he said quietly. “We watch. We remember. And we see what a woman who’s been fighting to be seen her whole life does when she finally realizes she always has been.”
Colt absorbed this, the pieces clicking into a darker, more intricate board. “So this isn’t just my father’s chess game. It’s yours, too. You’ve been waiting for the piece to arrive.”
Tristan didn’t deny it. His silence was confirmation enough. “She thinks she has the upper hand with her research and her defiant little dinners. Let her.” He pushed off from the doorframe, turning to face Colt fully in the dim hall. “Two can play this game. We work together. We break the walls she’s building, not with threats. We push her off balance so her guard drops.”
“How?” Colt asked, though his green eyes already sparkled with understanding.
“We care for her.” The words were deliberate, tactical. “Purposefully. Consistently. We flirt with her. Not as a conquest. As a distraction. We become the source of comfort and confusion all at once. She’s braced for monsters. She won’t know what to do with attention that feels real.”
Colt nodded slowly, a smirk forming. “We weaponize kindness. That’s diabolical. I’m in.”
“Start now,” Tristan said, his gaze drifting back to the kitchen. “She’s making brownies. The smell is… potent. Go be charming. I’ll handle the rest.”
The following days unfolded with a strange, new rhythm. The next morning, Jamie returned to the garden, her muscles protesting. She found the chipped gnome knocked over. Righting it, she noticed the patch of earth around it had been partially cleared, the most stubborn roots extracted just as Tristan had advised. Her shears were sharpened, oiled, and lying on the bench with a new pair of heavy-duty leather gloves beside them.
No note. No acknowledgment. Just a tangible improvement to her tools and a fraction of the work done.
At lunch, a simple chicken salad appeared on the island as she cleaned up. Colt leaned against the counter, already eating his. “You forget to feed yourself, Red. Can’t have you fainting among the roses. Tristan would never forgive himself for the loss of productivity.” His tone was light, teasing.
“I’m fine,” she said, but her stomach betrayed her with a quiet growl.
“The salad disagrees.” He pushed a plate toward her. “Eat. It’s just food. Not a peace treaty.”
The casual care was disorienting. She ate, the food fresh and good, under his watchful but easy gaze.
That evening, she served the herb-crusted lamb. As she set the plate before Tristan, his fingers brushed hers on the china. A fleeting, deliberate contact. His eyes lifted to hers. “The garden is looking less like a burial ground. You have a good eye for structure.”
The compliment, so specific and unexpected, lodged in her chest. “Thank you.”
Later, bringing out the brownies, she found them debating a boxing match. “Frazier had the heart, but Ali had the mind,” Colt insisted, grabbing a brownie.
“Heart wins wars,” Tristan countered, taking one himself. He bit into it, and a low, almost involuntary sound of pleasure escaped him. He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, they landed on her. “These are exactly right.”
The direct hit of approval, for something so simple, was staggering.
Day by day, the concerted pressure continued. Colt would appear with an iced tea just as the sun grew hottest, telling her a ridiculous story about a botched deal involving a flock of ornamental geese. Tristan would pass her in a hallway and pause, asking a single, pointed question about the garden’s original layout that showed he’d actually been looking at her work.
One afternoon, a sudden spring downpour caught her halfway across the terrace. She was drenched in seconds, scrambling for the door. It opened before she reached it. Tristan stood there, a dry towel already in his hands.
“You’re a magnet for bad weather, Jamie De Marco,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t hand her the towel. He stepped forward and draped it over her head himself, his hands briefly squeezing her shoulders through the thick cotton.
The gesture was startlingly intimate, paternal almost, but his proximity was anything but. She could feel the heat from his body, smell the clean, sharp scent of his cologne mixed with rain. She stood frozen, dripping on the mat, as he rubbed the towel over her hair.
“There,” he muttered, his voice close to her ear. He pulled back, his blue eyes scanning her face. “Go get warm before you catch cold. Again.”
The walled garden began to transform. Order emerged from the chaos. The rose beds, once choked, now showed dark, cultivated soil. The ugly gnome kept his watchful post. Jamie felt a pride in it that was separate from the game, a genuine satisfaction that unnerved her.
Her guards didn’t drop. They mutated. The defiance softened into a wary observation. She started leaving a glass of sweet tea on the stump near where Colt liked to survey the grounds. She memorized how Tristan took his espresso after dinner—two sugars, no spoon, just a hard swirl of the cup.
One night, after a meal of perfect steaks, they lingered at the table. The conversation drifted, easy and devoid of tension. Colt made her laugh with an impression of Benedetto’s poker face. Tristan countered with a dry, hilarious story about his aunt Celia’s feud with a misbehaving satellite dish.
Jamie laughed, the sound genuine and unforced in the room. She caught herself, the laughter dying as she realized she’d let herself forget, for a moment, where she was and who they were. She saw the glance that passed between the two men—swift, satisfied.
Her spine straightened. The warmth in the room seemed to cool several degrees.
“I should clean up,” she said, her voice suddenly formal.
“Leave it,” Tristan said, his command softer than usual. “Sit. Have a drink with us.”
It was an offer, not an order. That was the most dangerous part.
“I’m tired,” she said, the lie transparent. “Long day with the roses.”
She fled to the kitchen, her heart pounding a confused rhythm against her ribs. She leaned against the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator, Muffin winding around her feet. They were getting to her. The constant, low-grade attention was a solvent, and her resentment was beginning to dissolve into something far more treacherous: a sense of belonging.
She was watering the newly trimmed rose bushes the next morning when Colt found her. He didn’t speak at first, just picked up the second watering can and started on the other side of the bed.
“You’re quiet today,” he said after a while.
“Just thinking,” she replied, focusing on the base of a plant.
“About how we’re not the animals you expected?” His tone was gentle, not accusatory.
She looked up then. “About why you’re both trying so hard.”
He smiled, that easy, charismatic smile that seemed to hold nothing back. “Maybe we’re not trying hard. Maybe this is just what happens when you stop being the ghost in the hallway and start being the person who makes the brownies taste like childhood.” He set his can down and walked around the bed toward her. He stopped close, but not threateningly so. He reached out and gently plucked a dried leaf from her hair. “Maybe we’re just seeing you, Jamie. Finally.”
He held the brittle leaf for a second, then let it fall. He winked, turned, and walked back toward the house, leaving her standing there with the sun on her skin and a terrifying, exhilarating doubt uncoiling in her stomach.
The game had changed. The walls were cracking, but she could no longer tell if they were hers or theirs.