Page 57 of His Untouchable Heart

I sat up straighter, that wave of warmth evaporating too quickly. “You think he wants it for himself?”

Anthony nodded. “He collects. Quietly. Discreetly. And he doesn’t like being told no.”

My stomach turned. “Do you think he’d try to block the restitution?”

“He might try,” Anthony said, and then looked at me again with a new kind of fire in his eyes. “But I won’t let him.”

The certainty in his voice settled me more than any plan could. He meant it.

I let out a breath, and we fell into silence again—but this one felt earned. Peaceful. The breeze moved through the screens, lifting strands of my hair and cooling the heat in my chest.

Anthony reached over and found my hand. He didn’t squeeze it, just held it like he had all the time in the world.

After a while, he murmured, “I could get used to this.”

I turned to him. “To what?”

“This,” he said, his thumb brushing against mine. “You. The quiet. The way I don’t feel like I have to be anyone else when I’m here.”

I smiled. “You don’t.”

He stood, stretching like a cat, then watched me as I got up, walked to the screen door, and slid it open.

“Then stay,” I said.

His smile tilted, that same familiar charm behind it as he reached for my hand.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

Anthony

Steam clung to my skin as I stepped out of the shower, towel slung low around my hips. The bed was still rumpled, the spot where she’d slept was warm but empty.

I let my eyes sweep over the room—her scent lingering in the air, a faint trace of vanilla and something uniquely her.

This wasn’t some sleek bachelor pad with unused kitchen gadgets and perfectly staged furniture. It was lived-in. Real. A space shaped by two women who worked hard and made something solid—something I hadn’t realized I’d been craving until now.

And somehow, I was in it. Part of it.

Part ofthem.

Juliette had already left for the day. Outside the window, I could hear the quiet rhythm of the city waking up, but inside, it still felt calm.

I opened a dresser drawer and pulled on a T-shirt and sweatpants before padding toward the kitchen. The apartment was tidy but lived-in, with framed art leaning against shelves, a houseplant stretching toward the window, and a basket of mail that always seemed just on the edge of being sorted. It was the kind of place where nothing was for show, but everything had its purpose.

Gabrielle stood in the kitchen, her back to me as she moved around the stove. She wore a soft robe, hair loosely pinned up, with one bare foot tapping to a rhythm only she could hear. The radio murmured low in the background—NPR or jazz, something mellow.

“You’re up early,” I said, stepping behind her and kissing the top of her shoulder.

It didn’t startle her. Gabrielle just smiled and handed me a fresh cup of coffee like she’d been expecting me. “You say that like it’s not a miracle every time.”

“Because it always surprises me,” I said, taking a sip.

It was good—bold, dark, and just a little too strong, the way she liked it. I’d grown to love it.

Breakfast was already on the stove—scrambled eggs with fresh herbs, toast popping up from the toaster. She wasn’t pretending to be domestic, and I wasn’t pretending to be a guest anymore. We just... were.

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