Page 96 of This Life of Mine

I’ve been averting my eyes a lot since I met her. It isn’t that I don’t want to look. It’s that if I let myself, she’ll notice.

The truth is, I noticed her long before we ever spoke. The moment Reese sent the file. Her name. Her history. And the photos. Those fucking photos.

Some pulled from her socials—laughing with flour on her hands, curled up in corners of her shop with a book and coffee, sunlight catching freckles she probably doesn’t think about. Others taken by the professional we contract when a job warrants it. Clean shots. Neutral angles—meant to assess, not admire. But the photos of her in the gym. Damn.

I knew I was in trouble the second I saw her.

Photos never tell the whole story, but hers came close enough.

Despite that, they didn’t do her justice. They couldn’t capture the way she moves through a space. Or the quiet confidence she carries without false pretense. Or the way strength and softness coexist in her so naturally.

I told myself attraction was irrelevant. Background noise. A hazard I could manage.

I was wrong.

Meeting her face-to-face removed the distance the file created. The way she smells faintly sweet. The way her body is all disciplined and curved. The way she doesn’t try to be noticed—and still is.

So I avert my eyes. Often. Because wanting is easy. Restraint is the part that takes effort.

And if she ever realized how closely I’ve been paying attention since day one, how hard I’ve had to work to keep my focus professional, this job would be compromised. Hell, the problem is—it already fucking is.

What I’m still learning about Lina is written all over her home.

Lina’s house tells me things about her she hasn’t yet told me. Bookshelves everywhere. Lived-in. Stacked. Overflowing. Fiction, mostly. She loves stories. Escape, imagination, and experiencing something more profound than herself.

I’m not much of a reader. Never have been. But I could listen to her talk about books all night.

Earlier, she admitted, half-embarrassed, that she likes “spicy” ones. Said the plots aren’t always great, but the spice makes up for it. She laughed, like she expected judgment. I didn’t give her any.

Because there’s something honest about knowing what you enjoy and not apologizing for it.

She sets the water on the table and looks over at me. “Ready?”

“Ready,” I say, stepping forward with the baking dish.

I set the food down carefully, aware of the quiet between us. Anticipation.

This woman has survived more than most people ever should. She’s kind, sharp, and resilient. And even in something as simple as shorts and an oversized T-shirt, she’s far more alarming to my self-control than anything I’ve faced in years.

I remind myself to focus. Dinner first. Everything else can wait.

We take our seats and I serve Lina first, making sure she gets the larger piece of chicken before filling the rest of her plate. Only after she’s taken care of do I serve myself. The habit is so ingrained I don’t think twice about it.

“This is incredible,” Lina says after her first bite, eyes lighting up. “Like…sogood.”

I smile. “Thank you.”

We talk about the food for a few minutes, how the heat sneaks up on you, how the lemon balances everything out. It’s easy—natural. She raises her eyes to me, curiosity soft but genuine.

“Have you ever been to Italy?” she asks, casually as if she’s asking about a favorite restaurant instead of a country that still lives under my skin.

“Once,” I say. “One summer.”

Her brows lift. “Really?”

“Yeah.” I take a slow sip of water, buying myself a second. “I was eighteen.Montalcino. With my brother and my father.”

She doesn’t interrupt. She’s intrigued.