CHAPTER 13

Lia’s POV

Dante stepped forward, and I was suddenly, acutely aware of how much space he took up. How the air seemed to shift around him. How those dark eyes held mine with an intensity that made my skin feel too warm.

He extended his hand.

"A pleasure to meet you," he said, his voice that same deep rumble I remembered from last night.

I reached out and took his hand, and the moment our palms touched, that feeling from before came rushing back—that warm, electric current that traveled up my arm and settled somewhere low in my stomach. His hand was warm and rough and strong, engulfing mine completely, and he held it just a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary.

"Nice to meet you," I managed, my voice coming out slightly breathless.

Dante's mouth curved just slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile. More like he knew something I didn't.

"Actually," he said, his eyes still on mine, "we've already met."

I stiffened immediately, my whole body going tense.

Victor's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Oh?"

Please don't say it, I thought desperately. Please don't tell them I was hiding behind a plant watching you swim.

But Dante just kept looking at me with that faint, knowing curve to his mouth, and said nothing more.

The silence stretched for one terrible second.

Then Victor seemed to accept it, nodding slightly. "Well, good. I'm glad you've had a chance to introduce yourselves already."

I exhaled slowly, relief flooding through me.

Dante finally released my hand, and I immediately felt the absence of his warmth.

"Shall we sit?" Victor said, gesturing toward the long dining table. "Breakfast should be ready shortly."

Everyone began moving toward the table. Rob immediately stepped to Celeste's side, pulling out her chair with an attentiveness he never showed me. She thanked him with a warm smile and sat gracefully, smoothing her dress as she settled in.

I stood there for a moment, uncertain where I was supposed to go.

I didn't want to sit near them. Didn't want to watch Rob fawn over her for the length of an entire meal. Didn't want to feel like the unwanted third wheel in what was supposed to be my own relationship.

I moved toward the other side of the table instead, putting as much distance between myself and them as I could without making it obvious.

I'd just reached an empty chair when I heard movement behind me.

Dante was there, his hand already on the back of the chair, pulling it out for me.

I looked up at him, surprised.

He met my eyes steadily, that same faint hint of something—amusement, maybe, or just quiet acknowledgment—in his dark gaze.

"Thank you," I said quietly, the words coming out softer than I'd meant them to.

"You're welcome," he said simply.

I sat down, very aware of how close he was standing. Then he moved around to the chair beside mine and sat down, his movements unhurried and easy.

When I finally looked up, across the table, I found Rob staring at me.

His expression was strange. Not angry, exactly. Not jealous—that would have required him to actually care. It was something else. Something suspicious and calculating, like he was trying to work out a puzzle he didn't like the shape of.

His eyes moved from me to Dante and back again.

I held his gaze for a moment, then deliberately looked away.

Let him wonder, I thought with a small, bitter satisfaction I didn't entirely recognize in myself. Let him feel even a fraction of what I've been feeling.

The staff began bringing out breakfast—fresh fruit, pastries, eggs prepared a dozen different ways, coffee that smelled like heaven. The conversation started up around the table, light and pleasant and completely surface-level.

And I sat there beside Dante, hyperaware of his presence, trying not to notice how Rob's hand kept finding reasons to touch Celeste's arm across the table.

Trying not to notice how much easier it was to breathe when I wasn't sitting next to my own boyfriend.

All through breakfast, I was painfully, impossibly aware of Dante sitting beside me.

It wasn't just that he was there—it was the way he was there. The sheer physical presence of him, taking up space in a way that made the air feel different, heavier somehow. He didn't crowd me. He wasn't sitting inappropriately close. There was a perfectly respectable amount of distance between us.

And yet I felt him everywhere.

His cologne reached me in waves every time he moved—something dark and clean and expensive, with notes of cedar and something spicy I couldn't identify. It wrapped around me like a warm blanket, and I hated how much I wanted to lean closer and breathe it in properly. How it made me think of the night before, of watching him rise out of that pool with water streaming down his body.

I kept my eyes firmly on my plate and tried to focus on the food.

I picked at it, my appetite almost nonexistent, hyperaware of every small movement Dante made beside me.

When he reached for his coffee cup, I noticed the way his forearms flexed. When he cut into his food, I noticed the controlled precision of his movements. When he spoke to his father across the table—his voice low and measured, discussing something about a property acquisition—I noticed the way his words came out unhurried and certain, like a man who never second-guessed himself.

I was noticing too much. Feeling too much. This was dangerous and stupid and I needed to stop.

I reached for the glass jug of orange juice at the center of the table.

At the exact same moment, Dante reached for it too.

Our hands collided.