There was a rhythm to the mornings at the Morelli penthouse that Aria had not realized was as certain as an exhalation, ever since she had signed her name in twelve pages of contract language at three am and agreed to be inside someone else's life for three years. She had anticipated efficiency.
The cool, precisely-aimed efficiency of a man who could very well run a worldwide conglomerate in the same meticulous way he ran every other part of his life.
She had expected the schedules tacked to the kitchen wall, meals appointed by the minute, family members knowing their appointed station like employees in a subsidiary of the Morelli Group.
What she had not been prepared for was Adrian Morelli at the kitchen island at 6:45 A.M. in the grey shirt that had been washed enough times to go soft
