Page 24 of Matteo

“The chicken fettuccine, please. Layla loves pasta. She loves she can eat what I’m eating. Since pasta is soft, I’ve given her some.” Layla perks up at the sound of her name, hooting for attention. Damn, she’s adorable.

“Chicken fettuccine it is.”

There’s a plastic outer container, and inside it’s a thin metal tray to go into the oven for twenty minutes at 350 degrees. I like that it’s not supposed to go in the microwave. Bypassing the oven, I go to my crutch appliance in the kitchen.

“What is that?” Amy asks.

“It’s a toaster oven and air fryer in one. I might have lied. If you took this, I’d be upset. I use it in place of a microwave. Food tastes a thousand times better in it. Especially takeout I reheat. It’s almost as good as when they deliver it. I’m going with the oven setting. It doesn’t take forever to preheat or make the room hot like a regular oven. When it comes to being single and not a great cook, this helps.”

“I guess I would have thought someone as accomplished as you could cook. My cooking is pretty basic.” She warns me again.

At least I’m completely honest in the need for a housekeeper. “While I learned a few things from my grandfather as a kid, in college and med school, I didn’t have the time to cook. I lived off things that took minutes to cook in the microwave—cheap ramen, sandwiches, and scrambled eggs. I finally gave up ramen noodles when I got older. But once I got the time and tried to cook, I managed to forget most of what he taught us. After I set off the fire alarm for the fifth or sixth time, I gave up.”

I’m not going to tell her if it weren’t for the high sodium in the cheap ramen, I’d probably still be eating it. “I don’t care if you can cook. I’m content if you order these meals. It saves me from being bad with too many hamburgers and fries—my red meat intake needs to come down, along with my grease. No amount of time lifting weights will save my heart from trans fats.”

I love her smile and shake of her head. She doesn’t smile nearly enough. I’m going to do my best to give her every reason to smile.

“I’m not picky and will eat most things. My main problem is I forget to eat when I’m busy. I also have a hard time deciding what to eat, and it’s easier to swallow a shake and go back to work. Do you have any dishes you like to make?”

“My mom raised us on a meat and potato-heavy diet. The things I can do to a potato are what I’m most proud of. When I lived with my roommate, she taught me about spices and how cheap chicken was to cook. I wish I could say I have a bunch of recipes featuring chicken—I don’t. It’s mainly different variations of chicken seasoned differently and rice.” She shrugs self-consciously.

“That doesn’t sound bad to me. Although it’s probably a good idea to add more veggies. Even though I honestly hate eating vegetables.” I admit.

“My housekeeper in Baltimore loaded my freezer with vegetable sides I only needed to toss in the toaster oven. Half of them were covered in cheese. There were some in sauces I liked. I’m not expecting you to whip up a Michelin-rated dinner or five courses. My previous housekeeper was a lot like you. She would cook grilled chicken to go with the frozen sides, so there was always something to eat in the fridge. I’m good with that.” I try to reassure her.

“How did you go so long without one here?” She catches her bottom lip with her teeth.

I fight not to groan at the way it’s wet and full, wondering what she tastes like. Shit. My cock is stirring. I turn my attention to how much time is left on the food.

“Like I said, an unhealthy dependence on takeout. The current cleaner will be relieved when I inform her that I no longer need her. If I hadn’t told my mother that you agreed to be my housekeeper she would have had someone in here before the end of the day. She was upset at the amount of dust on the baseboards. I didn’t—and still don’t care about baseboards. I needed the kitchen and bathrooms clean.”

“Today? She couldn’t really hire a housekeeper on a Sunday, could she?” Her chocolate eyes widen.

I’ve never been into chocolate, yet I have a sudden, desperate craving for the sweet treat.

“Your mother sounds scary.”

“She isn’t as bad as she sounds. It was her assumption I was using the housekeeper thing as a cover for our dating that made me think of asking you to pretend to be my girlfriend. She’s fallen in love with Layla and has Layla calling her Gigi already. My mother has a habit of collecting children and deeming herself their Gigi.”

She looks warily down at Layla. I’m not sure if it’s good or bad when Layla pipes up with a happy “Gigi.”

Amy

I can’t help going tense at his mother thinking we were a couple and at the idea of her calling herself Layla’s grandmother. Layla’s happiness is a punch to the gut. Although Layla was always a happy baby, it was almost like she was happy to please me—as if she believed she had to be happy to be loved—the way I grew up.

Only now she’s genuinely happy. It’s like she went from a 60-watt lightbulb to a 100-watt. I’m glad she’s happy, yet deep down, all I can think is—how much it will hurt her when we move on?

One thing I’ve learned is that good things don’t last. What will our lives look like when Layla is ten and knows what a Gigi is, and Bitsy has moved on to her real grandchildren?

“Hey,” it’s soft, almost a whisper. “It’s all going to work out. I promise.”

How can he read me so well? “How can you be sure of that?”

Both dimples flash. “Because I said so.”

I shake my head in wonder. “Because you’re a billionaire, and things always work out for you.”

He exhales a laugh. “My grandfather told me once that you don’t get what you deserve. You get what you’re willing to fight for. I didn’t get into the undergrad I wanted—I had to work my ass off for it. In medical school, no one gave a shit how much money my family had. You have to pass every test and treat any patient the same way someone who doesn’t have a dime next to you has to. When it comes to losing a patient, money doesn’t protect you from the pain.”

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