Eight
Ellory
M y phone pings.
Richard’s waiting to drive me to Matteo’s.
Today crawled by like molasses in the middle of a snowstorm. I’ve been counting down the hours, watching the clock like a prisoner, checking my phone every ten minutes like a lovesick teenager.
And now, it’s time.
My palms are sweaty. Butterflies riot in my stomach, and for a second, I honestly think I might throw up. I take a deep breath.
One last glance in the mirror.
Hair, decent. Lipstick, holding.
My skirt is slightly wrinkled, but the overall vibe says effortless dinner guest, not panicked disaster. At least I hope.
Sex is not happening tonight…Right? My heart says wait.
My body says absolutely not. Not after what he did to me last night.
He awakened a beast inside me, and she wants more.
I can already feel the burn of his hands on my hips, the echo of last night’s almost. And that voice in my head—the one that protects me—is whispering, Be careful. This could be everything.
Who am I kidding?
What the hell am I even thinking?
It was and always has been just me and my dad. He loved me, but I grew up under a microscope. I’ve always dreamed of something different—a big, loud, messy family. A partner. Kids. Real love. But after a trail of disappointments and then the stalker, I’d convinced myself love wasn’t in the cards.
Patrice tells me to just have fun, but fun’s not really in my DNA. I feel too much. Attach too fast.
And Matteo… He’s the quiet kind of dangerous. The kind that doesn’t just steal your heart. He rebuilds it.
Don’t even get me started on Amelia. That tiny girl could undo me with a single two-teeth smile.
His world feels like a club I’ve never been invited into—tight-knit, full of laughter, loyalty, and unspoken understanding. Even Gianna welcomed me in a way that made something ache inside.
It’s the kind of bond that whispers, “ We’ve got you. No matter what.”
Matteo wants me to be sure. Truly sure.
But last night, the way he saw me, the way he held me, makes me want to show him just how much it meant.
Richard’s downstairs.
I slip on my heels and head for the door, then freeze. “Wait! I forgot something.”
I dash back to the hallway table, grab the gift bag I prepped earlier, and the bottle of wine I picked up this afternoon. A small gesture, something for Amelia, something for Matteo. A peace offering. Or maybe a promise.
In the car, I’m buzzing. Restless. I want tonight to go well.
Scratch that. I want it to be perfect.
Last night, Matteo blew my mind. Then he left me wanting more, and somehow, that was the sexiest part.
When we arrive, Richard pulls up to the curb in front of Matteo’s building. The doorman gives a polite nod and motions toward the elevator.
“Call me when you’re ready to head home. I’ll be right over,” Richard says.
“Thanks,” I smile, suddenly nervous again as I step inside.
The elevator glides open on Matteo’s floor, and there he is.
Barefoot, in ripped jeans and a T-shirt that hugs him like it was tailor-made. His hair’s a little tousled, and he’s got Amelia on his hip.
My knees actually wobble. I trip a little, trying not to stare.
Amelia squeals the moment she sees me. Her little arms flap like she’s about to take flight, and she’s practically diving toward me.
“Careful,” Matteo laughs, shifting her into my arms. “She’s a mess.”
He’s not wrong. There’s something orange smeared across her cheek. Carrots? Mango? Hard to say.
“Hi, gorgeous,” I murmur, cradling her. She giggles, and my heart melts into a puddle.
I shift her to my hip and reach into the bag. “I brought you something.”
She’s immediately mesmerized by the crinkly tissue paper. The toy inside? Barely worth a glance. Classic.
Matteo steps aside, letting us in. His living room looks like a hurricane named Amelia just passed through—bottles, toys, burp cloths.
The scent of baby shampoo, warm formula, and something faintly floral hits me as I step inside. Soft music plays under the chaos, and the room glows with late-afternoon sun.
But it’s beautiful. Lived-in. Loved.
“Welcome to my crazy life,” he says, pressing a kiss to my cheek. My skin heats instantly.
He scoops Amelia back into his arms and sets her in her highchair. “All right, baby girl. Time to finish dinner.”
She answers with a gurgle and a wicked little grin.
Translation, Not a chance.
“Here come the carrots,” Matteo says in full dad mode, spoon in hand, doing the whole yum-yum routine as he inches it toward Amelia’s mouth.
She watches it like it’s a ticking bomb.
Then—bam. One tiny hand slaps the spoon, and puréed orange explodes across Matteo’s shirt. Before he can recover, she grabs the bowl and dumps the entire thing onto her tray.
Carrots. Everywhere.
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. But one look at Matteo—wide-eyed, stunned, wearing carrots like war paint—and I lose it.
He sighs. “Every night.”
And just like that, the nerves vanish.
I feel it settle in my chest.
It’s not perfect or polished. Just messy and alive and full of laughter. The kind of place I never realized I’ve been aching for.
Before Matteo can wipe himself off, Amelia’s eyes widen with glee—and then she slaps her hands into the orange mess like it’s the best game ever invented. Her wild, gleeful laugh fills the room, and then— slap, slap, slap —she’s launching carrots in every direction.
Matteo and I freeze, stunned, as baby food splatters the table, the floor, the walls…and us.
Poor Matteo. There’s carrot in his hair, on his cheek, dotting his shirt like baby-food confetti.
Amelia cackles with a deep, belly laugh that’s so infectious we both burst out laughing too. I try to dodge the next round, but it’s hopeless. We’re laughing too hard to care.
Matteo glances at me, eyes wide with mock despair. “Do you see what I have to deal with?”
“It’s a good thing she’s cute,” I say, brushing a smear of orange off my arm.
Then his expression shifts. His eyes lock on my blouse.
His mouth drops open. “Oh no…you’re covered in carrots too.”
I glance down. A generous blob is sliding down my chest, and there are bright orange freckles on my arms and neck. I reach up. Yep, definitely some in my hair.
Matteo bolts to the sink. Water runs, a rag appears, and he’s back in a flash, guilt all over his face. “I’m so sorry. Oh God, this has to be one of the worst dates you’ve ever been on.”
I smile. “Not even close. Want to hear about my actual worst first date?”
His eyes light up. “Absolutely.”
“I went to UCLA, and not long after I started, this guy asked me to a movie. We’d met at a frat party—not exactly a fairy tale—but he seemed decent. I didn’t know the Westwood very well yet, so I said yes.”
Matteo’s eyebrows draw together, like he already knows where this is going.
“We get to this tiny theater in Hollywood. I thought it was just a weird indie place. But I didn’t realize what kind of movie it was until two women started groping each other on the screen…with a guy just kind of…supervising. Then they were naked and all together.”
His jaw drops. “Wait. He took you to a porn theater?”
I nod. “Yep. I didn’t say a word. Just stood up and walked out. Called a ride and thanked the universe he didn’t follow me.”
He winces. “Wow. And you didn’t call your mom? Didn’t you say she lived in Los Angeles?”
I laugh. “Can you imagine that phone call? ‘Hey, Mom, I’m stuck at an adult theater. Can you come get me?’ She’d have pulled me out of the dorms and made me commute from her house until I graduated.”
Matteo grins. “All I’m saying is, if some guy pulls that stunt on Amelia, I’ll rip his eyes out.”
That sends me into a full laugh, the kind that leaves my stomach aching.
“I think my dad would’ve done the same,” I say. “My mom on the other hand would have gone right into the theater and yelled at the guy in French and then in English.”
“At least carrot purée is less traumatic.”
“Barely,” I tease, raking a hand through my hair and pulling out more sticky residue. “Okay, your turn. Worst first date.”
He groans. “I’ve had a lot of first dates. Not sure this one even qualifies.”
I cross my arms, raise an eyebrow, and tap my foot. “Stop stalling.”
He sighs. “Fine. I took this woman to dinner down by Fisherman’s Wharf. It was…fine. Nothing special. Afterward, we walked around, made small talk. In my head, I’m thinking maybe she’ll invite me in for a nightcap.”
“Let me guess—she didn’t?”
“Oh, she did,” he says, smirking. “But first she told me she wanted to feel what a baby growing inside her is like.”
My jaw drops. “No!”
He nods, deadpan. “First date. First time meeting her in person. I never ended a date so quickly.”
“Oh my God.” I’m laughing so hard I nearly spill what’s left of my wine. “What did you say?”
“I said good luck…and called a rideshare. I swear,” Matteo says, still shaking his head. “I was like, Excuse me? Then she starts going on about how beautiful motherhood is and how excited she is to become a mom.”
“She must’ve said that to scare you off. No way that was real.”
“Oh, it gets worse. She asked if I’d ever donated sperm to a bank.”
I blink. “What?”
“Yeah. Her reasoning? I was apparently so handsome she assumed I’d want to share my genes with couples who couldn’t have kids.”
I slap a hand over my mouth, laughing so hard I can barely breathe. “Narcissistic much?” My whole body curls in, shoulders shaking, eyes stinging with tears. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard.
He scoops Amelia out of her highchair with a dramatic sigh. “Come on, kiddo. Time to rinse the carrots out of your hair—and mine.” He shoots me a glance over his shoulder. “I’ll grab you a clean shirt too.”
A few minutes later, he returns with an oversized button-down shirt and hands it to me. “It’s clean. Probably soft enough to sleep in.”
“Thanks.” I step into the hallway to change. The shirt practically swallows me, hanging to my knees.
Through the baby monitor on the counter, I hear his voice in the bathroom, low and playful.