Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

M atteo

I walk away from her. Because if I don't, I'll take her into my arms. She's not ready for that. The last thing in the world I want to do is move too fast for her.

She follows me into the kitchen with Layla on her hip.

"Let me see what all my mom bought. She made sure to get most of the food options we only need to warm up, although there are a few things we need to cook. No, you sit." I order her as I try to focus on the inside of the refrigerator. Instead of the way her shirt is pulled tightly over her breasts by having Layla on her hip.

"I feel like that's my job." She sighs.

I shake my head. "Not until you're recovered. Let's give it a few more days. Okay, our options for food we only need to warm up are chicken fettuccine, chicken and cheese green chili enchiladas, salmon with rice, and the last thing is meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans. The stuff to cook is pot roast with baby potatoes and carrots, stuffed peppers, stuffed flounder, and stuffed chicken, so basically stuffed things. What sounds good to you?"

"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."

"I'm sorry, that was rude." I'm ashamed.

"It's fine. I got it a lot when colleagues found out about my family." He says it's fine, except I can tell it isn't. Feeling guilty all over again, I accept when he changes the subject. "If my mother makes you uncomfortable in any way, let me know. She doesn't get a free pass because she's my mother."

"I guess… I don't want her to think I'm taking advantage or something with all the things she's bought for me and Layla. Especially when I no longer feel so guilty about not being able to give her anything for Christmas. Or that she spent her first Christmas in a crappy motel room."

Matteo shakes his head. "She won't remember her first Christmas. You did the best thing for her. It wasn't easy to leave, but you did it to protect her. That is what she'll remember."

I get lost in the swirling gold of his eyes. I'm not sure why I can't catch my breath and why it feels so warm. It must be because the fever hasn't left completely.

The toaster oven goes off with a high-pitched ding, startling me. I blink and find him using oven mitts to pull out the tray. "The directions said to let it sit for five minutes. Let me get some oatmeal made up for Layla."

"I can do that?—"

"No, you can't. I'm forbidding it for tonight." He smiles down at Layla. "Yeah, you know we're talking about you. You're so smart."

His eyes meet mine. "You've done an amazing job with her. The way she already can talk. She recognized the alphabet and got excited when I said it. Then she did her baby talk like she was trying to repeat what I was saying."

I blush. "I worried I was being too… I don't want anyone calling her dumb the way they did to me. That's not fair to her either, though?—"

"Hey, it's okay. You're a good mom. She knows she's loved. It's rare for a baby who has lived through the environment she did to still be happy and smiling. She's like that because of you. And please remember, not all babies or children meet every milestone at the same time."

Tears sting my eyes at him calling me a good mom. All I've wanted since the moment they placed her in my arms was to be the best mom I could be. I was going to give her the childhood I longed for. One where she felt safe and loved and never worried about not having food in the refrigerator or if the electricity would be shut off when she woke up—the way I did.

Watching him move around the kitchen making formula and carefully adding oatmeal until it was what he deemed the perfect consistency. I can't help but be impressed. The words fly out of my mouth without thought. "You're good at all of this. How many kids do you want?"

He goes still. Soft gold meets mine. "I never gave it much thought. More than two would be nice. Having built-in friends and someone to learn from is something I'm grateful for in growing up with my brothers. What about you? Growing up, what was your dream for the life you wanted?"

I'm not sure why it's so hot in here. I want to be flippant, to make a joke. Only with those golden eyes so intent on me, I can't.

I've never once spoken it aloud—too afraid it would never come true if I did. Since Matteo has been so honest, it feels wrong not to return it. "I dreamed of four children, two boys and two girls. The boys would be older and take care of their little sisters the way I wished my older brothers would for me. It felt like I lived alone even before my mom got lost in drugs."

Remembering the silly dream, I blush from embarrassment. "To be an artist, to paint and my work would sell steadily. No huge shows or fanfare, just a few people who loved what I put on canvas. That they found it…worthy of their money."

"And your husband? What did you dream he would be?" How does a man so large speak so softly without whispering?

"I didn't see him in my mind. It always felt like it was just me and my children." I shrug. How did I never see a man? The children had to come from somewhere. A man never even crossed my mind.

He grabs a bib, and the second Layla sees it, she gets excited. Taking the small bowl, spoon, and bib to the highchair he sets them on the tray. "Do you want to feed her, or can I?"

The way he asks, as though he wants to feed her—take care of her. Despite the mess that's feeding her. It steals the air from my lungs. All I can do is nod as I strap her into the highchair.

While I was getting her bib on, Matteo managed to dish out the chicken fettuccine and place both our plates on the table. He also has a glass of sweet tea and the orange juice he insisted I drink.

Sitting down across from him, I watch as he cajoles Layla into eating the cereal with the promise of some pasta if she finishes her bowl. I'm not sure she understands him, but she eats the cereal begrudgingly. Finally, he gives in and puts a noodle he's cut into tiny pieces on her spoon. She's hilarious with how excited she is, opening her mouth so wide I wonder if it hurts.

I laugh when she slurps down the noodle while she kicks her feet and her hands ball into fists.

"Yeah, this is some good noodles. Good job eating all your cereal like a big girl." Matteo chuckles.

Her mouth opens wide like a baby bird begging for more. He sighs and begins cutting up another noodle for her. "It's a good thing you're strapped in because you're kicking your feet enough to take off into space."

"I'm glad she likes this because I've never made fettuccine before. I'll probably order more of this. It's better than what I've had in restaurants."

He nods. "Yeah, this is great. Calling it a grocery store is a bit of an understatement. You can order whatever you want or think is necessary. Your phone is going to be delivered tomorrow. I'll get all the apps to order from there and everywhere else you might need loaded with my card."

"I have a phone."

An eyebrow goes up. "A phone you have to load with minutes. The phone is all yours and is paid for. For the next five years—even if you walked away next week. I pay all my bills in lump sums or auto-pay. Because of the question of whether you would stay, I wanted to ensure you would always have a reliable phone. There is a location tracker on it. You don't have to turn it on. My hope is you will, not because I'm going to watch your every movement. It's just so I know you and Layla are safe. It will be the same with your vehicle."

"You weren't kidding about the car. You're getting me a car?" He really is crazy.

His chuckle skims up my tummy. Those dimples are flashing at me. Layla laughs when she sees him do it. "Yes, you're getting a vehicle. For when you need to run errands and get around the city."

"I have the truck."

"The truck doesn't seem dependable or safe for you and Layla. It's in the parking garage. However, I would rather you sold it and kept the money for emergencies."

I can't believe he's so nonchalant about me selling the truck and keeping the money—not even giving him that to pay him back for buying me a car.

"I was told it didn't have air conditioning. Driving around in the Texas heat without air conditioning will make you sick. It's not a big deal. I bought a vehicle for my last housekeeper. While, yes, it wasn't until hers broke down, not allowing her to do all I needed her to do. It was necessary then, and it's necessary now." He shrugs.

I finally understand. He bought his last housekeeper a car, so he doesn't see it as a big deal to buy me one. Rich, rich is one thing in theory, another in action. "It just seems like such a waste."

A frown appears, and Layla, who is staring at him intensely, also frowns. It's adorable. "It isn't to me. I want to ensure you're driving something that isn't going to leave you and Layla stranded or isn't safe if you were in an accident. If you're running around doing things for me, then you'll get a vehicle to do said running around in."

He pauses, "I have a vehicle my mother bought me that I haven't been driving. Since it's a BMW SUV, I didn't think it was a good look for me to drive it to the clinic every day. So, I bought a non-luxury SUV almost as safe. I'm happy for you to drive the BMW as it's one of the safest vehicles on the road. And I'll buy a new one for myself—in case I need to drive Layla, or you need to use my vehicle."

"Why can't I have the non-luxury one? Then you won't have to buy anything."

"Because the BMW is safer. I'm going to donate the other one to a local charity."

"You're still buying a new vehicle in the end, though." I melt a little inside at his concern enough to purchase the same thing for him to drive on the off chance he'll need to drive Layla. His concern for our safety isn't something I can argue against. "Okay, I give up."

"Good." I like he isn't smug. "Now, if you're not going to help me with my family, how about helping me figure out what I'm supposed to do now that I'm not working eighty hours a week. Tell me, is there anything you did or wish you could do for fun? Give me some ideas."

Embarrassed, I sigh. "I haven't had time to myself in years, even before I had Layla."

"There wasn't anything you liked to do or wish you had time for? You're about to get more time for yourself soon. I hope I'm not messy enough for you to spend more than forty hours a week cleaning and cooking. Even if you do have Layla to take care of at the same time. You mentioned painting."

"It's been years." I sigh. "I used to love drawing and painting."

"I have to admit I don't know much about art. I've heard mentions of oil, watercolor, and acrylic. Was there one you preferred over the other?"

"Well, watercolors were the least expensive. I like working with them. Acrylic was cheaper than oils and you could build them to create more dimension. I got some super cheap oils when I first started dating Danny. He made me feel like shit for spending the money—even though it was mine. I wished I could afford to paint with them after I ran out. For years, I kept to sketching and drawing. Maybe I'll get a new sketchbook and some pencils."

I'm excited and looking forward to it. Worried I'm talking too much, I turn the question around on him. "You don't have any hobbies at all? Not even when you were a kid?"

He shrugs. "I like Legos because my grandfather bought them for us as—I think—a step toward the construction business. Aside from working out, I didn't allow anything to take my attention from studying and work. My sister-in-law joked about teaching me to cook. I'm not against it. I simply want to enjoy my time without there being an end result I'm working towards." For the first time, he's self-conscious. "Sorry, that's probably a very rich person thing to say."

"No, I get it. Doing something without a goal feels self-indulgent. But it shouldn't be. Why does everything have to be a form of work with a goal in mind? Why can't it be just because you want to?" I shrug when he gives me a wry smile that causes flips inside my tummy. "You mentioned your brothers. How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

His smile is wide. "I don't have any sisters. My mother tried. She stopped when she got her fourth son."

"Four boys? Your poor mom. That sounds like pure chaos."

The smile slips. "My mother was hands-off. We were raised by nannies."

"I'm sorry." It's clear it's not a great memory.

One shoulder lifts. "While I resented it growing up, I came to understand since it was how she was raised, she didn't know better. She was married off at eighteen for money to save her family. By the time she was sixteen, they were living on credit provided by their name alone. My grandfather had it with my father's antics and thought marriage would settle him. It didn't. He kept sleeping around and getting into trouble long after they were married."

"Wait, her parents basically sold her into marriage? And he cheated on your mom, and they didn't divorce?" Holy crap.

Nodding, he sighs. "Marriage among those with money is rarely about love. It's more commonly about consolidating money and power. My mother was raised to accept it. My father's family had money but no name, and her family had a name but no money. It was a perfect match for everyone but my mother. Divorce wasn't done in her family or in their social circle."

"How sad." No wonder his mom is so fierce. She had to be to survive.

He shrugs. "She doesn't regret their marriage, which surprises me. As far as she's concerned, having us was worth it to her. Even with the pain she endured when my oldest brother died of an overdose at seventeen. I think it's why she was so intent on gaining custody of his son—almost like a replacement for the son she lost."

"Oh, Matteo, I'm sorry. Were you close?"

"Sadly, no. Manuel was the oldest, and my dad spoiled the hell out of him. He was a bully, and I hated him. My mother blamed drugs on him overdosing. It was the means, but he was the cause. He drove too fast and drunk, more times than he drove sober. Thankfully, Santos is nothing like his father. He's my nephew, yet we were raised like brothers."

"Does Santos live here in Dallas? What about your other brothers?" I want to know everything about Matteo.

Matteo might have been born rich, but that didn't mean he grew up with a lot of love—the same way I didn't. Oddly, it makes me feel better that money wouldn't necessarily have made a difference in my parent's love for me the way I was so sure it would have.

"Hm, no. He's in our Los Angeles office. Rafe is my older brother and heads the family company in our corporate office here in Dallas. Javier is younger than me and is the head counsel for the company, and he's also here."

Layla squeals to get attention, startling us both. "What? You're not getting any more noodles."

Her eyes go wide, and she blows a raspberry.

We both laugh.

I yawn.

"Go to bed. I'll take care of her." He urges me.

Sighing, I don't bother arguing. "Fine. Goodnight, baby. I love you. Be good for Matteo." I kiss her cheek, and she chuckles at me. "Night."

"Night." He nods at me.