Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

A my

I wake up too late for a mom. It feels late. Turning my head, the clock tells me it's a little after ten in the morning. I never heard Layla cry, even though my door was open wide—not simply ajar by a few inches.

Matteo and the darn monitor. He kept the video monitor for Layla with him because he said I would hear if she needed me. Since he was further away, he needed the monitor. He's all of ten feet further away from her. It was so I could sleep longer.

I'm cranky, and I'm not sure why. The more I think about it, I figure it out. It's been nice having someone take care of me. No one has ever done it before. There are no memories of my mom doing much for me. She was deep into her addiction by the time I was eight. I don't remember much before that.

All of that is at an end now. I feel better. Okay, not one hundred percent, but a solid eighty percent. Finally.

If I'm fine, there's no need for Matteo to take care of me. It's my turn to repay him for all he's done.

It's New Year's Eve today. I wonder what his plans are. Will he go out tonight? Maybe he has a date… I refuse to acknowledge the way my stomach twists at the thought of him on a date with another woman. The time of it being just me, Matteo, and Layla is almost over. He's going to go to work. I'll be here cooking and cleaning for him. Because I'm the housekeeper, that's all I am.

Out of the shower, I get dressed in my usual leggings and a long-sleeved shirt.

In the dining room, Layla is offering Matteo some of the banana squished between her fingers.

He opens his mouth, pretending to eat it. "Yummy, thank you. Your turn. You eat it now."

She laughs and sucks her fingers into her mouth.

"Mama," her cry, loud and happy, fills me full of love.

"Good morning, baby. Look at you being a big girl eating your oatmeal. Oh, that banana looks yummy." I kiss her cheek and get covered in banana and oatmeal.

Matteo chuckles and offers me a wet baby washcloth. "Here you go. Sorry."

I wipe my mouth. "It's all right. I've gotten worse from her. I'm sorry I slept so long. Thank you for taking care of her."

"Don't apologize. I took care of her so you could sleep. I love taking care of her. She's really a good baby, even teething. Don't worry about making breakfast. I ordered it in. Since I wasn't sure what you would want, I got a few things."

"Holy crap, you ordered three breakfasts?" I study the boxes waiting on the counter. "You really do have an addiction to ordering food."

He shrugs, "It's so easy. And I couldn't order eggs Benedict for me without ordering it for you too. This is chicken and waffles. And this is egg, bacon, and cheese on a croissant with country potatoes. A few minutes in the slightly smoky air fryer will make it taste like it's fresh off the stove."

Shaking my head, I laugh. "That eggs Benedict looks delicious. I'd like that one, please."

"Good, it's been forever since I had their chicken and waffles."

I can't take my eyes off how deftly his hands move. I'm remembering how nimble his fingers were as he braided my hair.

"That's a relief. How long will it take? Because it looks good." I stare at the toaster oven, willing it to be done.

"It will take a few minutes. Sit down, and I'll bring it to you. What do you want to drink? How about some orange juice?"

Sighing, I go back to the table where Layla is banging her spoon on the highchair tray to a beat she likes. "God, I love seeing her happy. She can make as much noise as she wants, and I won't get hit for it."

Matteo appears in front of me. "He hit you when she made a noise?"

I jerk my eyes to his in horror. "I said it out loud?" Too late, I slap my hand across my mouth. My head drops in embarrassment.

"Amy, please look at me. The shame isn't yours, it's his. None of what happened was your fault. Not a single thing."

My hand falls from my mouth and goes to my stomach to still the rioting there. "I think he hated her. She couldn't cry or make any noise. He would get angry just looking at her. I didn't understand it. Sometimes I think she knew, and she didn't make much noise…if he was there."

Tears fall, and seconds later, I'm wrapped in Matteo's arms. I hold him tight, desperate for his strength, his warmth after what feels like too long cold, and alone.

He's murmuring low in his chest. What he's saying beyond, "It's going to be okay. I promise." I have no idea—it's the vibration running from his chest to mine that calms me.

In his arms, I believe him. It was going to be okay. In the end, it would all work out. I'll work for Matteo and live with him and Layla in this beautiful condo until I'm able to stand more firmly on my feet. One day, I'll move us to a little house with grass and trees where she can run around and play. It will be a good life with us safe at last.

His large hand gently cradles my head. I go still. For a moment, the memory of Danny grabbing my head and squeezing me when he was angry flashes. Except it's not Danny. There's no scent of tobacco, sweat, and beer. I inhale deeply taking the scent of him into my lungs. His scent is leather, something green, the slightest hint of rich vanilla, and something all Matteo—it's deeper, richer, and intoxicating.

"Mama," Layla calls to me. "Mama. Mama. Mama." It's on a loop, and it's not going to stop. I pull away to answer her. For the first time, I wish like hell I didn't have to.

Matteo's arms slide down to my waist. "Hey, sweetie. You want Mama's attention?"

I find her grinning wide, her hand in her mouth with drool running down her arm. It's only when Matteo lets me go that I go to her.

"What—oh my, someone needs her diaper changed." Unhooking her from the chair, I can't avoid her banana-covered hand. "Come on, let's go get you changed."

Flashing Matteo a grateful smile, I carry a babbling Layla to her room. After changing her stinky diaper, I clean Layla of the last remnants of banana clinging to her baby fingers. She's also managed to get banana on the pink dress she's wearing.

"Let's get you into a clean dress. What do you think? Do you want to pick it out?" I ask her as I carry her to the walk-in closet.

I'm once again overwhelmed by all the new pretty dresses, rompers, and the two-piece sets of long tops with pants and some with shorts. There's no way she could wear all these clothes before she grows out of them. She reaches for a bright red dress.

As I dress her, she's all smiles clutching at it across her tummy. It hits me, as young as she is—she loved the pretty dress. I blink back tears. She was aware of the differences between her old clothes and her new ones. New clothes I would never have bought. Even if I had the money, because I thought she wasn't aware.

I'm forever grateful to Matteo for these new, prettier things. It's because of Matteo and Bitsy that she's wearing a smile and loving her red dress.

Her eyes are wide, her breath catches, and she loses her smile. Oh crap, I wipe my tears and force a smile to reassure her. I worked hard to never cry in front of her—when I had control over it. The last thing I want is for her to see me crying. Especially when I left the reason for tears in Waco.

"Wanna go help me eat breakfast with Matteo?" I ask her with a wide smile. Does she laugh and nod because it's a baby response, or is it because I said Matteo? I'm almost positive her eyes lit up when I said Matteo.

Matteo is at the table where a plate of eggs Benedict and a glass of orange juice are waiting.

"It looks good." I let go of Layla as she reaches for him. He laughs at how excited she gets when she sees him.

"It is. This is the only place I order it from."

He cuts a strip of his waffle off and gives it to Layla. While she's munching on it, he gets her back into her highchair and strapped in again. She likes it—a lot. His pour of syrup over a fried chicken breast atop a large waffle is light.

Crap. "You're eating lunch, and this is my breakfast."

Shaking his head. "We just did this. It's not a big deal. I wanted you to sleep. How are you feeling, by the way?"

I give up on arguing with him. "Better, actually. I don't feel tired, the way I have the last few days. Oh my god, this is good."

He chuckles. "I told you."

We eat in silence, broken only by Layla's babbling requests for more waffle. I think she eats almost half of it.

"How do you feel about Nancy coming Thursday to help you with Layla? She's an excellent nanny. My sister-in-law loves her." He sees my hesitation. "If you would prefer, I can stay home again. She doesn't have to come. That's why I'm asking now. To let her know or have the clinic schedule me off."

Guilt hits me. "I don't need anyone. I'll be fine. I can take care of Layla by myself."

"No, I'm not comfortable leaving you home alone all day with Layla. I don't trust you will rest with her. You'll try cleaning and doing too much and set your recovery back." He's shaking his head. "I'll call in?—"

"Okay, okay." I hate how well he knows me. "She can come. I'll behave." I sigh.

His sigh is slow. "It's not about getting you to behave."

I nod. "I get it. I do."

"If you get it, do you also get I want you to speak to my therapist for you and not for any other reason?"

Matteo

Chocolate eyes go wide with hurt. "I don't need?—"

"Really? Because I do. I have in the past when I first started in pediatric oncology due to it seriously fucking with my head. And I continued for more than four years until my therapist moved to another city. I'm going again, and I haven't gone through half of what you have." Her beautiful face softens. "Do you think less of me for seeing a therapist?"

She's quick to shake her head.

"You can be honest." I invite her. "I want you to be honest."

Layla, sensitive to her mother's upset, is swinging her eyes between me and her mom. I put another small bite of waffle on her tray, and she gobbles it up.

Amy's head goes down, unable to hold my eyes.

"It's no different from a physical ailment. Take, for instance, a broken leg. Could you get by without a doctor? Maybe. However, nine times out of ten, it won't heal correctly without a doctor resetting it. You'll likely walk with a limp for the rest of your life. It can be painful to go through, but there's going to be pain you're carrying that will hurt new relationships and yourself. I'm not saying you have to have therapy to heal from what happened to you. I do think it would help you be the best version of yourself."

She fidgets with her fork. "What, no using Layla against me?"

I shrug. "No. I figure I only get to make that argument sparingly. I think you're a good mom who knows it's better not just for her but for you too."

"You were so close." Sighing heavily, her eyes meet mine. "How many times do I have to go?"

I swallow a sigh at her not getting it. "You don't have to do anything. If you're going to go into it with the end in sight, then I don't think you should do it at all."

She's hurt again.

"Fine." Pushing up from the table, she almost makes a dignified exit—until she remembers Layla. Then she's back, refusing to look at me as she unhooks Layla from her highchair and goes back to her room. Her door slams shut loudly enough I could have heard it if I were on the other side of the condo.

I sit wondering if there was another way I could have handled it. After giving myself a headache, I decide I couldn't have. Talking with Hillary, I agreed Amy likely has PTSD. How could she not after what she went through? Despite what I said, I don't believe she'll fully recover from what she went through without therapy.

Either she hates my guts now or later. Because I'll always do not only what she wants but what she needs. And she needs therapy. I'll give her time to reconcile herself to that.

Since there isn't much I can do until she admits it, I decide to take a nap. Layla was up too damn early this morning.

Matteo

While I was tired, I thought I would get an hour or two, I'm surprised by the more than three hours of sleep I get.

I find Amy's door open and her sobbing. "Amy, what's the matter? Are you okay?"

Her eyes are swollen from crying. "You left."

Fuck. I'm down on my knees at her feet. "No, sweetheart. I was taking a nap. I didn't leave. I would never leave you."

Throwing herself into my arms, she squeezes my neck tight. "I'm sorry. I'll go to therapy. Please don't be mad at me."

"I'm not mad. I promise I'm not. It doesn't matter. You don't have to go. Forget I said anything. It's all right. Don't cry. I could take anything but your tears." I beg her. It is seriously fucking with my chest to hear her deep, ragged sobs.

I don't move until she attempts to pull away.

When I feel it, I get up—taking her with me. Sitting down on the edge of her bed, I put her in my lap. She buries her face into my chest.

I lean over and grab several handfuls of tissues from the bedside table. I offer them to her. It's a few minutes before she finishes cleaning up. I'm a wimp leaving her to it—seeing her beautiful face swollen from tears is more than I can endure twice in one day.

Finally, I find my voice. "We're going to put a pin in discussing therapy until you tell me it's something you want to do. Beyond that, it's none of my business."

Her hand goes to my chest, using it as leverage to push away and look up at me. "I'm sorry. I was going to tell you that I'll go. Only I looked everywhere and couldn't find you."

"I want you to do it for you. Not me, not even Layla?—"

"You're not listening to me. I want to go, for me. The reason I hesitated over the nanny coming tomorrow was because I was afraid. Afraid of someone new, of someone breaking the feeling of it being safe with no one invading this space. It's felt like a comfortable cocoon of you, me, and Layla. And I didn't want someone to come into it and end that feeling. I'm tired of being afraid. Okay, maybe some of it is for Layla. I've lived life afraid since she was born. I want to be brave for her." Tears fill her eyes again.

"Okay, it's whatever you want. Only what you want." I assure her.

How is she still beautiful with her eyes and nose red? Giving into need, I rub my thumb over her cheek. Her chocolate eyes meet mine. I watch as her teeth catch her bottom lip. Wet and full, I long to soothe it with my tongue.

"I will never leave you and Layla. I'm not going anywhere. Nothing is more important to me than you. Do you understand?" Shit, I could be fucking this all up. It's too soon to make proclamations, but I need her to know.

Chocolate disappears as her pupils dilate. Her breath catches. At last, she gives a small nod. It's not enough for me. I need her to say the words. My thumb moves over her lips, "I need you to say it, sweetheart. Do you understand?"

She melts into me. "I understand, Matteo."

Jesus, Amy saying my name with need and desire turns me to stone. "Say it again."

Can she feel my hard cock beneath her? My entire body is hard and tight for her. No other woman has ever done this to me—made me desperate to touch them, taste them.

No. She's not ready for everything I want from her. Get it together, Matteo, before you fuck this up and scare the hell out of her.

Her small, pink tongue slowly slides along her bottom lip, almost touching my thumb. Fucking hell, I want to beg her for the feel of her tongue against my skin. "I understand, Matteo."

How I don't come, I have no fucking idea. Amy is my woman, and she wants to be my woman. In agony, I set her back on the bed. Letting go of her is like letting go of my dreams finally come true. Soon—but not yet. "Good."

"I'm going to change my shirt," I mutter as I walk away. Before I give in to the need, clawing at my gut, I get as far away from her as I can.

I make it into the shower without stopping to even undress. With a flick of my wrist, the water is on a temp I don't care about. Tearing my clothes off, this time I'm a two-pump chump, coming hard—almost violently.

Christ. My hair isn't even wet.

Damn, my head goes down. I should be embarrassed, and I am. But I'm also fucking exhilarated. Amy understood I wanted her, and she wasn't pushing me away. Not only was she not pushing me away, she wanted me too.

Thank fuck.

My happiness lasts for the ten minutes it takes me to dry off and get dressed again.

Amy is wide-eyed in the kitchen as I walk toward her. She's hesitant. "Are you going anywhere tonight?"

I'm confused by the question. "No, why?"

"It's New Year's Eve. You don't have any plans at all?"

Did she really think I would be anywhere but here with her? "No, my brother asked if I wanted to go to his place at Christmas. I wanted to turn him down then. Another night spent going over the available women in a fifty-mile radius isn't how I want to ring in the new year. I texted him yesterday with the excuse of being worried I was coming down with something. Told him about all the strep going around at work. He might have wondered if I was lying. However, he decided not to push it."

"I'm surprised your brother is good with loaning you his nanny."

"He's not loaning me his nanny. His nanny is nice enough to work on her day off. And she's nice enough not to mention it to Rafe. I'm not ready for him asking me if I've gotten your background checked and verified for himself that you have no ulterior motives."

Chocolate eyes go wide with hurt. After considering my words, the hurt dissipates, and she nods. "I get it. It's just being on the receiving end of the mindset is…odd. When you know you aren't. I wish I had done a background check on Danny. He had a previous charge for domestic violence and another for assault. Maybe I wouldn't have said yes when he asked me out."

I open my mouth to agree, only to catch myself. "I hate you suffering at his hands. But to wish you were never with him would be to unwish Layla. I couldn't do that."

Shaking her head, her smile lights up her beautiful face. "How do you always know the right thing to say?"

"Practice. Talking to families going through literal hell as they watch their child…I couldn't not say anything. But what can be said? Fourteen years of practice."

She loses her smile. "I'm glad they had you as their doctor. And I bet they were, too."

"You're too kind." I clear my throat. "Since we're not going out, how about our own version of celebrating? Every New Year's Eve, our nanny would let us go nuts with all the bad stuff she never let us have during the year."

For the first time, she's scared. "Like what kind of bad stuff?"

"I don't know, maybe a cake, some candy. Is there any ice cream my mom left on the shelf?" I rush to explain. "What are you thinking?"

The tension goes out of her. Why was she scared? Her shoulders lift, clearly embarrassed. "Danny drank every day. At first, it was just on the weekends. He said he was just celebrating the end of the week. In the few New Year's Eve parties I've been to, there was liquor everywhere. I assumed…sorry?—"

"Hey, don't apologize. Like I said before, you went through so much I couldn't imagine. There's no switch that flips that makes you no longer wary of something bad happening or certain the other shoe is about to drop because it can't stay good. It's a trauma response. It keeps you safe. Don't be sorry for protecting yourself and Layla. For the record, I'm not much of a drinker. Since I considered myself always on call for my patients, I rarely drank. When I'm with my brothers, I'll maybe have two fingers of scotch. It's not often, though—especially if I'm driving later."

She blinks and shakes her head as she wipes away tears. Turning away from me, shaky air comes out of her. I'm aware she's trying to get herself together. I hate she feels the need to hide from me as she does it.

"Please stop making me cry. You summed it up so perfectly. I finally stopped wondering if I'm going to wake up from the best dream ever. But now I'm—" Another shake of her head. "Okay, I'm definitely calling your therapist."

I force a chuckle I'm far from feeling. "I'll make sure she knows your call is coming. So, is that a yes or a no on creating a delivery order that will have the shopper wondering if a kid got ahold of their mom's phone?"

Laughing, she nods. "That sounds like a lot of fun."

And it is. I find she loves sour candy and isn't a huge fan of chocolate. She's never had salt and vinegar chips and has an addiction to spicy chips. My mom also left a few flavors of ice cream on the shelf—we ordered three more.

We settled onto the couch while we waited for the order, and I put on the series we watched while I braided her hair. She did want to do the jigsaw puzzle. As we sorted through the pieces, I found out her favorite color is cobalt violet, not purple or blue, but something in between the two.

She's a Taylor Swift fan and loves Pink. Her mom played blues in the house. So she loves Stevie Ray Vaughan, Muddy Waters, B.B. King, and Eric Clapton. And yes, Layla is named after the song. Her mother used to play Layla on repeat, wishing she had someone who loved her the way Clapton loved Layla.

I discovered that she loves rainy days so much that she opens the windows to let the scent of rain in. She also likes tea and loves coffee. Her sad sigh as she talks about not having her favorite coffee in months makes me want to run to the store this second to get it for her. I checked the app for the Moka pot she used to make the espresso. Except the stores have all closed early for the holiday.

As a doctor, I depend on coffee, but I don't love it nearly as much as she does. I encourage her to buy the pot and espresso she loves, and if she needs a grinder, all of it. I can't wait to try this coffee. The way her face dropped at my lack of brand knowledge or even a preference has me laughing.

While she likes rainy days, she hates being cold. She's always loved Christmas—admitting she once had her tree up until February. I tell her to leave everything up for as long as she wants. When she's ready for it to come down, let me know, and I'll help her. The way her eyes light up at the idea of leaving the tree up is every fucking thing. I don't understand why she loses the light seconds later.

"I'm feeling guilty about all the Christmas gifts and shopping done for Layla. You were right, she was too young to appreciate it. It was a waste." Her forehead knots.

"Hey, don't do that. It wasn't a waste. I think one of the great things about kids is seeing the world through their eyes. It reminded me of when I was younger and used to be excited by Christmas. I'm glad we did it." I assure her.

She's back to smiling. I can barely hear her telling me about her favorite Christmas gifts above the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. One gift she left behind when she went into the group home was the family dog. Walter was a poodle and Maltese mix and her best friend. She wanted a dog, but Danny told her no.

Chocolate eyes big, she asks if I like dogs. I tell her that I love dogs. I simply never had the time they deserved. I see a dog in my future, and I can't wait.

I want all the family things I told myself I didn't want for years. It wasn't that I didn't want them. I believed I didn't deserve them. Since I was born with the biggest blessing in the world, money, I didn't get to have all the other things people wanted in life. I needed to pay for my wealth in other ways. Devoting myself to helping others is what I needed to do to even the scales.

Fuck those scales. Fourteen years of complete devotion to saving lives gave me the satisfaction of saving those lives. It also gave me severe fucking depression. I earned this—her.

I'm going to spend the rest of my life devoted to her and Layla. Hopefully, more children will follow. I can't wait to see Layla as a big sister. Our family will be the most important thing to me, and they will never be in doubt about that.

I'm going to give Amy everything she deserves. It's a good thing I have a private jet at my disposal since she dreams of standing in front of the masters of art.

She longs to go to the Art Institute in Chicago or the National Gallery of Art in D.C. and see the art in the Louvre. I'm aware there are a few other places art lovers long to see, like the Prado in Madrid and the Uffizi in Florence. I'm going to need to renew my passport and get her and Layla one.

I note all her favorite foods, some are my favorites as well. Her second favorite holiday is New Year's Eve. She loves the idea of beginning again, hopeful that it's true. And she loves how it all ends in fireworks.

We tune into New Year's Eve celebrations around the world and watch the fireworks. Her wide eyes and gasps have me more entranced than the fireworks. Dinner is the salmon and rice to balance out all the candy and chips. Dessert is ice cream because it's still a celebration. Layla is put to bed at her normal bedtime of seven.

Amy falls asleep a little after ten. I have everything cleaned up and am in bed by eleven myself. It's the best damn New Year's Eve I've ever had.