The Monaco Scandal

I took his hand, letting him steady me as I climbed onto the deck. “I can see why.”

He led me to the front of the boat, where a pair of plush white cushions were arranged under a canvas canopy. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, handing me a glass of prosecco. “I’ll get us out of the harbor.”

I settled back against the cushions, watching him move around the deck with practiced ease. He started the engine, the sound a low, throaty purr, and cast off the lines. As we motored out of the harbor, the breeze picked up, whipping my hair around my face and carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen.

Matteo steered us past the rows of superyachts—the floating palaces of the rich and famous—and out into the open water. The sun was just starting to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.

“So,” he said, cutting the engine and letting us drift. “Sophia.” He drew my name out, savoring it. “Tell me something about yourself that isn’t a personal question.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a tricky one.” I took a sip of prosecco, considering. “I’m a good swimmer,” I offered. “But I’m afraid of jellyfish.”

He laughed. “Jellyfish? Really?”

“Really.” I shuddered. “Nasty, slimy things.”

“Huh.” He moved closer, sitting on the cushion beside me. “I’ve been stung by jellyfish more times than I can count. Doesn’t bother me.”

I made a face. “You’re a monster.”

“A monster who’s not afraid of a little sting,” he corrected, his eyes dancing.

I shook my head. “Your turn. Tell me something about yourself that isn’t a personal question.”

He thought for a moment. “I can tie seventeen different kinds of knots.” He held up his hands, palms out. “These hands can do anything with a piece of rope.”

I snorted. “I’ll bet they can.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Want a demonstration?”

“No!” I laughed, swatting at his arm. “Behave yourself.”

“Never,” he vowed, his grin wicked. “Your turn.”

We played the game for an hour, trading silly facts and stories that didn’t mean anything. I told him about the time I’d accidentally dyed my hair pink when I was twelve. He told me about the summer he’d spent sailing around the Greek islands with his cousins.

The sun dipped lower, setting the sky on fire. Matteo refilled our glasses, his fingers brushing mine as he handed me my prosecco.

“Careful,” I murmured. “That was almost a personal question.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” But his eyes were dark and intense, fixed on mine in a way that made my breath catch.

I looked away, my heart pounding. “Beautiful sunset,” I said, my voice husky.

“Beautiful company,” he countered.

I turned back to him, my mouth suddenly dry. “Matteo…”

He moved closer, slow and deliberate, giving me plenty of time to pull away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. My body was frozen, caught between want and fear, between the rules I’d lived by for so long and the reckless desire to break every last one.

His hand came up, cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. “Sophia,” he whispered, his breath warm against my face.

I leaned into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed. “Yes?”

His lips were a heartbeat from mine when the radio crackled to life.

“Matteo, you there? Over.” The voice was tinny and urgent, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Matteo jerked back, snatching his hand away like he’d been burned. “Fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He grabbed the radio. “This is Matteo. Go ahead. Over.”

“We’ve got a situation at the café. Some drunk asshole knocked over a table, glass everywhere. Over.”

Matteo closed his eyes, his jaw tight. “I’ll be there in ten. Over and out.” He clipped the radio back onto his belt and turned to me, his expression apologetic. “Duty calls.”

I nodded, standing up on shaky legs. “Of course.” I tried to smile, but it felt brittle. “Hazard of the job, I guess.”

He helped me back onto the dock, his hand lingering on my waist for a moment longer than necessary. “Rain check?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Sure,” I said, already stepping away. “Rain check.”

But as I watched him speed off in the Riva, the wake churning white behind him, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d dodged a bullet. Or maybe missed my one shot at something real.

I walked back to my hotel alone, the taste of his almost-kiss still on my lips and the weight of my secrets heavy on my shoulders.

I didn’t see Matteo again for three days. I told myself it was for the best—that I needed to focus on laying low, on staying out of sight until the scandal blew over. But the truth was, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the way his hand had felt on my cheek, the way his lips had almost touched mine. The way he’d looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.

I threw myself into work, holing up in my hotel room with my laptop and a bottomless pot of room service coffee. The Cecchi empire didn’t run itself, and I’d been neglecting my duties ever since the story broke. There were emails to answer, reports to review, decisions to make. I buried myself in spreadsheets and contracts, trying to drown out the memory of Matteo’s smile.

It almost worked. Almost.

On the fourth day, a knock on my door jolted me out of a conference call with our Asian division. I muted myself and padded across the room, checking the peephole before opening the door.

Matteo stood in the hallway, looking deliciously rumpled in a faded t-shirt and jeans. He’d obviously just come from the café—there was a smear of flour on his cheek and the ghost of exhaustion in his eyes.

“Alessia Cecchi?” he asked, holding up a cardboard box. “I have a delivery for you.”

I blinked, confused. “I didn’t order anything.”

“Compliments of the house,” he said, his mouth curving into a grin. “Can I come in?”

I hesitated, glancing back at my laptop. The CEO of our Tokyo office was still talking, his voice tinny through the computer speakers.

“Uh, sure,” I said, stepping back to let Matteo inside. “I’m kind of in the middle of something, though.”

“No problem,” he said, setting the box down on the desk. “I’ll just be a minute.” He leaned a hip against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. “I haven’t seen you at the café. Everything okay?”

I nodded, reaching for the box. “Just busy with work.” I pulled open the lid, revealing a dozen perfect croissants, still warm from the oven. “Wow. These smell amazing.”

“Family recipe,” he said, looking pleased. “My nonna’s secret.”

I took a bite, groaning as the flaky pastry melted on my tongue. “Oh my God. These are incredible.”

He laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell Nonna you approve.” His gaze drifted to my laptop screen, where a spreadsheet was still open. “You said you were here on business. What do you do?”

I froze, the croissant halfway to my mouth. Rule number three: no personal questions. I’d broken it once already, telling him I was afraid of jellyfish. I couldn’t afford to slip up again.

“Consulting,” I said vaguely, wiping crumbs from my lips. “It’s pretty boring.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Boring enough to keep you locked up in your hotel room for three days straight?”

I shrugged. “It pays the bills.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced, but he let it drop. “Listen, I have to run—the café’s a madhouse today. But I was wondering…” He trailed off, suddenly looking uncharacteristically nervous. “I have to take a yacht down to St. Tropez tomorrow. Just a quick overnight trip to drop it off with a client. Any chance you’d want to come with? Strictly professional, of course.” He grinned. “I promise I won’t ask any personal questions.”

I bit my lip, torn. On one hand, a trip to St. Tropez sounded amazing—and the thought of spending more time with Matteo was undeniably appealing. On the other hand, close quarters on a yacht could be dangerous. Intimate. It would be all too easy to let my guard down, to let something slip that I couldn’t take back.

But I missed him. More than I wanted to admit. And the thought of another day cooped up in this hotel room, staring at spreadsheets until my eyes crossed…

“Okay,” I heard myself say. “I’ll come.”

His face lit up. “Really?” “Really.”

“Great! We leave at dawn. I’ll pick you up at the dock.” He started for the door, then paused, turning back. “Oh, and pack light. It’s only one night, and space is tight on the yacht.”

I nodded. “Got it.”