Page 16 of Matteo

“I can get you something to eat. The fridge is full. You need clothes, so you got what you needed.” He gets up, shaking out baby puff cereal onto the tray of the highchair for Layla. She scoops up one and gums it enthusiastically.

“No. I need to take a shower and get out of these clothes.” I back away from him. Unbelieving of him getting up to make me something to eat.

“Okay. While you’re taking a shower, I’ll make you something. What sounds good?”

I’m so freaking hungry. “Everything.” Flies out of my mouth. Oh god, kill me now.

His chuckle shimmers up my tummy. “Then it’s a good thing my mother filled the refrigerator to its maximum capacity. She went heavy on soups for your throat. There’s some I’ve never even heard of?—”

“Soup. Yes, soup, please.” All the soup sounds good. A dimple appears. This man is truly stunning. I turn to flee but am stopped before I make it back to the room.

“Amy?” He doesn’t need to raise his voice to stop me in my tracks.

“Um, yes?” My eyes find him at the refrigerator.

“What kind of soup would you like?” The question is soft.

“Chicken noodle?”

“Okay, and would you like a grilled cheese with it or some other sandwich? I can make a grilled cheese without burning it. There’s chicken, turkey, and two kinds of ham lunch meat.”

“I would love a grilled cheese. But I don’t think my throat could take the crispy bread. A turkey sandwich sounds good, thank you.” I edge back down the hallway.

“Mayo, mustard?” He asks as he opens the refrigerator.

“Mayo only, thanks.”

“All right. It will be ready for you. Take your time.” He urges me before turning his attention back to the inside of the refrigerator.

My feet won’t move at the chance to study him while he’s unaware. Wow, he’s so freaking stunning. Bent over, his ass is hard and perfectly round. I’m no better than a man. I tell myself to move, but I’m frozen—until he turns back to find me ogling him. Now, I’m practically running away, too embarrassed to say a word.

I fight not to slam the bedroom door. Leaning against it, I’m annoyed that I’m breathing heavily after exerting such a small amount of energy. Truly awake now, I study the large room.

It’s twice the size of the motel room I’d been in for too long. There’s a small seating area with an oversized chair and a large flat-screen television mounted on the wall. In the corner is a small white desk with an upholstered blue velvet chair.

I hear Layla banging on her highchair. The noise gets me moving to take the shower I’m longing for. I’m grateful as hell to take off my clothes with the promise of new ones to wear. It takes a few minutes to figure out the hot and cold in the shower.

Standing beneath the waterfall showerhead, after weeks of water pressure so weak it felt like being spit on—I fight not to sob with relief. For a long time, I simply close my eyes and enjoy the hot water running over me. When I’m worried I’ll use all the hot water I open my eyes and hope to find shampoo in here.

A large cubbyhole is filled with not only white, fluffy washcloths but also body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. It’s all brand new. Bitsy again.

The woman has expensive taste. I don’t want to even guess what she spent on my clothes. Then I remember designers don’t have fat women’s sizes—that meant it couldn’t be as bad as I fear.

Rinsing off the conditioner, my hair feels like freaking silk. Considering the cheap shampoo and conditioner I’ve been using left my hair feeling like straw, the expensive stuff is worth it.

I take my time drying off using one of the enormous towels on a heated rack and use a hand towel to dry my hair. There’s a plush toweling robe on the back of the bathroom door. Wrapping myself in it, I sigh at how good it feels against my skin. On the vanity is an electric toothbrush with the head of the toothbrush covered in plastic packaging beside a bottle of body lotion. They weren’t there last night.

I’m embarrassed at sleeping through her putting all this stuff away and the clothes in the walk-in closet. The bedside clock tells me it’s almost two in the afternoon. I can’t believe how much I slept. And if I slept that much, why do I still feel like I could sleep another ten hours?

In the walk-in closet, I’m once again stunned by the amount of clothes. My hand catches a long-sleeved, cotton candy pink shirt dress that would probably go down to my shin. It’s so freaking soft. Is it silk? Curiosity has me pulling it down. Holy fucking shit, it’s not only silk it’s totally my size. How did she know?

It’s beautiful. I long to wear it, but I’m too worried I'll ruin it or something.

I open the drawer Bitsy labeled as my panties. The drawer is filled with an enormous selection of silky panties. There are so many styles, some I’ve never seen before. Silk, they aren’t silky. These gorgeous panties are all silk. It isn’t until I get to the very bottom that I find three lone pairs of cotton briefs.

Opening the bras, they can’t be… Oh my god, these are my size. I’m a 42D—a size I only became in the last few weeks. I was on the tightest of the three rungs on my tired nursing bras. Nursing bras because I couldn’t afford to buy new bras even though I dried up months ago. How the heck could Bitsy know that?

The question spins in my mind as I go through the bras. They are so freaking beautiful—silk, gorgeous tulle, and chiffon. I don’t want to guess how expensive these are. Oh, okay. Beneath the more than two dozen bras in 42D are another dozen in 44D bras. I’m not sure if this is better or not. Bitsy spent money on things that wouldn’t be worn.

---