Not in the Schedule

Ashley would not let the heat soften her edges. That was the rule for July: keep the spine rigid, keep the coffee black, keep the men at a distance where they could be measured and dismissed in equal measure. She had spent twelve years learning that softness was just another word for being overlooked, and at forty-five, she was done being overlooked.

The workroom in the Cinecittà studio was a kiln. The air hung thick with the scent of tanned leather, beeswax, and the stale tobacco smoke of the day crew, which had long since abandoned the building for the cool of the Trastevere hills. Outside, Rome was a drumroll of cicadas and distant traffic, but inside, it was just the heavy silence of unfinished work.

He stood in the center of the room, stripped to the waist, waiting for her.