Page 4 of Raphael
"I know you can, sweetheart. You're stronger than I was at your age." Her voice softens. "Just remember what your father always said—"
"Trust your instincts," I finish for her. "I will, Mom. I promise."
After we hang up, I sit in my car for a long moment, thinking about Raphael Conti and his intense dark eyes. Every instinct I have tells me there's danger there, but not the kind that threatens me physically. The danger is in how easily I could fall for a man like him. A man who's clearly off-limits in every possible way.
"Professional boundaries," I remind myself firmly. "He's your employer, he's older, and he's... complicated."
But as I drive home to our small apartment on the edge of the city, I can't stop thinking about tomorrow morning, when I'll walk back into that house and see him again.
Next Day
I'm at Raphael's door at exactly 6:25 AM, determined to make a good impression. I've dressed in dark jeans and a simple blouse that's professional but allows for movement. Perfect for chasing after a five-year-old. My short hair is neatly styled, and I've applied just enough makeup to look put-together without seeming like I'm trying too hard.
When the door swings open, I nearly swallow my tongue.
Raphael stands there in nothing but low-hanging sweatpants, his chest and abs fully exposed and gleaming with sweat. A towel hangs around his neck, and his dark hair is damp at the temples.
"Morning workout," he explains, stepping aside to let me in. "Sorry, I thought I'd be finished before you arrived."
"No problem," I manage to say, keeping my eyes determinedly on his face rather than the defined muscles of his torso. The tattoos I glimpsed on his forearms yesterday extend across his chest and shoulders.
"Marco's still asleep," he says, closing the door behind me. "He usually wakes up around seven. I'll just grab a quick shower, then show you around properly."
I nod, hoping my face isn't as red as it feels. "Take your time."
As he walks away, it's impossible not to notice the way his back muscles flex with each movement, or the dimples just above the waistband of his sweatpants. I force myself to look away, setting my bag down on the entry bench.
The house is quiet in the early morning light. I take the opportunity to look around more than I could yesterday. The living room is stylish but comfortable, with a large sectional sofa and a wall-mounted TV. Marco's toys are neatly organized in colorful bins. The kitchen is sleek and modern, with high-end appliances and a large island.
Everything is tidy and well-maintained, not what I expected from a single father. There are even framed photos on the walls, mostly of Marco at different ages, but none that appear to include his mother. I wonder what happened there but know better than to ask.
I'm examining a bookshelf when Raphael returns, now dressed in dark slacks and a button-down shirt that does nothing to diminish his imposing presence. His hair is still damp from the shower, and the scent of his cologne, something woodsy and clearly expensive, fills the space between us.
"Coffee?" he offers, moving toward the kitchen.
"Please." I follow him, keeping my distance.
"How do you take it?"
"Just a little milk, if you have it."
He nods, adding a splash to my cup before handing it to me.
"So," he begins, leaning against the counter with his own black coffee, "Marco's routine is pretty straightforward. Breakfast at 7:30, then he usually plays or watches cartoons until about 9. I've enrolled him in a day camp three days a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—from 10 to 2. The other days are flexible."
I nod, committing the schedule to memory. "What about meals? Does he have any allergies or strong preferences?"
A small smile tugs at Raphael's lips. "No allergies. He'll eat almost anything except cooked carrots. Those are apparently 'yucky.' There's a meal planning calendar on the fridge, but feel free to adjust it if needed. I usually cook dinner when I'm home early enough."
The idea of this intimidating man cooking dinner for his son softens something inside me. "And bedtime routine?"
"Bath at 7:30, story time at 8, lights out by 8:30." He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. "He'll try to negotiate for more stories or just 'five more minutes.' Don't fall for it."
I laugh. "I've been babysitting since I was fourteen. I know all the delay tactics."
His expression warms slightly. "I figured you did." He sets his cup down. "Now for the less standard parts of the job."
The atmosphere shifts subtly as Raphael straightens to his full height. "My work schedule is unpredictable. I might need to leave at odd hours or come back very late. Sometimes with no warning. I'll always text you, but there may be times when I'm unreachable for a few hours."
