Page 65 of His Untouchable Heart

“You’re oddly quiet,” she said.

I gave her a small smile. “Just thinking.”

Her brow arched. “That usually means you’re up to something.”

I didn’t deny it. Just shifted into the right lane and flicked on the turn signal.

A few moments later, we pulled off Ocean Boulevard and rolled into Coconut Grove. The neighborhood shifted around us—wide, tree-lined streets, tropical landscaping that looked like fairies had manicured it, and the kind of houses that didn’t come with price tags, just legacy contracts and discreet negotiations.

I slowed as we approached the address, then pulled to a gentle stop in front of a sprawling waterfront estate. The house rose in clean, white stucco arches, with blue tile accents, wrought iron balconies, and towering palms lording over the pavers. There was a real estate sign in the yard with a bold red sticker across the middle:SOLD.

Gabrielle leaned forward slightly, blinking at the house, then at me. Her frown was immediate and suspicious.

“What are we doing here?” she asked.

I cut the engine, pulled the key from my pocket, and let it rest in my palm where she could see it.

“Tour?”

Her eyes narrowed. But a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

And I knew—she was starting to put the pieces together.

Gabrielle didn’t speak as I guided her around the side of the house through a wrought-iron gate that opened into the kind of backyard that didn’t even try to be subtle.

We stepped into a private world—tropical gardens in full bloom, a manicured lawn so green it looked photoshopped, and a patio outfitted with an outdoor kitchen that could’ve hosted a Michelin-star chef. There was a built-in grill, pizza oven, bar seating, and even a recessed fire pit surrounded by stone benches. The whole space faced the ocean, and beyond the patio, the private beach curved like a crescent moon.

Gabrielle slowly turned in a circle, taking it all in with wide, cautious eyes.

She was suspicious but trying not to be obvious about it.

We passed a guest house tucked behind a line of palms—two stories with arched windows, a private path to the beach, and its own gated entrance.

I glanced at it and said offhandedly, “Juliette would probably love it.”

Gabrielle shot me a sidelong look. “Would she?”

I gave nothing away.

She followed me back to the front of the house and inside through the tall double doors. The entryway opened to a view of the entire main floor—sunlight pouring through the glass, everything clean lines, and soft elegance. A chandelier glinted high above us, and the air smelled faintly of lemon polish and ocean breeze.

I didn’t rush her.

She moved slowly, her fingers trailing over the marble countertop in the kitchen, the brass fixtures in the butler’s pantry, and the carved molding that bordered the arched doorways. The ceilings soared above us like a cathedral, and every room opened onto the next like the house was welcoming her in.

Her expression changed as we walked. Curiosity gave way to realization. Then awe.

I saw it in her eyes. She wasn’t just admiring a property anymore. She was imagining herself in it.

Which was exactly the point.

I led her down a quiet hallway toward the back of the house, where one final door stood closed. When I opened it, Gabrielle stopped short in the doorway.

The nursery.

Soft taupe walls, white trim, gauzy curtains that billowed slightly from the sea breeze drifting in. A rocking chair sat angled beside the window. The crib was already assembled. A plush rug covered the hardwood floor, and the mobile above the crib spun slowly—clouds, stars, and tiny hot air balloons.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Then, almost breathless: “You did all this?”

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