Page 18 of The Mafia King's Baby

“I came to make you some meals.”

“That’s so thoughtful.”

She ushers me into her cozy living room, where Sariah immediately abandons her favorite squeaky toy to demand attention from her second-favorite human. I scratch behind her ridiculous ears while Mrs. Patterson settles carefully into her recliner.

“How’s the hip feeling?” I ask, genuinely concerned about her recovery.

“Much better, thank you. Physical therapy is helping, though I swear that woman they assigned me is part drill sergeant.” She studies my face with the keen observation of someone who raised four children and taught elementary school for thirty years. “You look tired, dear. Everything all right?”

“Just busy with the hosting business. I had my first guest check out this morning.”

“How exciting! How did it go?”

I should give her a simple, positive summary that doesn’t reveal how complicated the experience became. Instead, I hesitate, probably betraying more than I intend with my expression. “It went well,” I say finally. “He was very polite and respectful.”

“But?”

Mrs. Patterson has always been able to read me like a book, a skill that makes her both an excellent teacher and an occasionally inconvenient neighbor.

“But nothing. It was exactly what it was supposed to be, a professional transaction.” The words taste like ash in my mouth.

“Mmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “I’m sure you’ll have many more guests soon. Word of mouth is powerful in the hospitality business.”

After preparing a casserole for her, along with some easier stovetop meals and freezing them into individual servings, I spend another hour helping her organize medications and discussing her physical therapy routine, grateful for the distraction of focusing on someone else’s needs. Sariah provides additional entertainment by demonstrating her ability to carrytwo tiny tennis balls at once, a skill she’s apparently been perfecting during my absence.

“I should take this one for a proper walk,” I say, clipping Sariah’s leash to her collar. “She’s got energy to burn.”

“Wonderful. She’s been moping since yesterday, probably missing her hiking adventure. She came home absolutely exhausted and covered in pine needles. Slept for hours, which never happens after our usual neighborhood walks.” Mrs. Patterson’s eyes twinkle with curiosity. “I assumed you’d taken her somewhere special?”

“Oh. Yes, we went up to the ridge trail.” I focus on adjusting Sariah’s leash to avoid meeting her knowing gaze.

“With your guest?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “He didn’t have firm plans for the morning, so I invited him along.”

“How nice. It’s always good to show visitors the natural beauty of our area.” Her tone is perfectly innocent, but I catch the undertone of matchmaking satisfaction that makes me want to disappear into the floor.

“It was just a hike, Mrs. Patterson.”

“Of course, dear. Just a hike with a handsome stranger, who made you glow like a woman who’s remembered what it feels like to be appreciated.”

I stare at her, caught between embarrassment and amazement at her perceptiveness. “How do you?—?”

“Thirty years of teaching gives you an eye for these things. Plus, you’re humming.” She gestures toward me with obviousamusement. “You only hum when you’re processing strong emotions, usually happy ones mixed with uncertainty.”

I realize she’s right. I’ve been unconsciously humming the same melody all morning. “It’s complicated.”

“The best ones usually are.”

Sariah and I walk the familiar neighborhood loop, her enthusiasm for every smell and sight providing a welcome contrast to my brooding thoughts. She doesn’t care that Aleks left without saying goodbye in person and doesn’t analyze the intentions behind cash left on kitchen counters or wonder whether genuine connection can develop in less than twenty-four hours.

She just enjoys the walk, finding joy in the simple pleasure of exploration and movement. I try to follow her example, focusing on the crisp mountain air and the way late-morning light filters through pine branches. I return the dog with enough time to spare to meet Gemma for our usual Thursday lunch.

By the time I meet her at our usual spot downtown, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m handling the situation with appropriate adult perspective.

“You look different,” Gemma says before I’ve even sat down at our booth.

“Different how?”

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