Eight #2
“Thanks for trying to ruin my date with that carrot stunt. Good thing she’s seen you behave before now.”
Amelia giggles.
“Oh no you don’t—”
A loud splash.
“Stop it! We have company! You’re sabotaging me on purpose. If Ellory bails, it’s your fault.”
More babble.
“Yes, she’s very pretty. And yes, I would like to be alone with her. But you, little monster, are making that impossible.”
I stand in the kitchen smiling like a total fool, wiping stray orange off the table, the floor, even the lamp. How did carrots get on the ceiling?
I should be horrified.
Instead, I feel…happy.
This mess, this chaos—it feels real. Like a life. Like something solid and warm I didn’t know I’d been missing.
When Matteo returns, Amelia’s bundled in a footed onesie with tiny clouds, cheeks flushed, eyes heavy with sleep. She looks like a walking lullaby.
“She’ll be ready for bed soon,” he says gently. “If you don’t mind being a little patient.”
“Of course.” I smile. “Take your time. I’ve got nowhere else to be tonight. If you want help, just say the word.”
He preps a bottle like it’s second nature—formula, shake, test, done—and settles into the corner of the couch. Amelia reaches for it instantly and leans into his arm like she was built to fit there. Within seconds, the bottle is empty, and her eyes flutter shut.
“I’ll be right back,” he whispers, carrying her to the bedroom.
And just like that, I’m melting.
Matteo—barefoot, in worn jeans and a Green Day tee, cradling his daughter like a lullaby of his own—he wrecks me. My ovaries practically detonate. I need a cold drink. And maybe CPR. Or a fire extinguisher. Maybe all three.
When he reappears, Amelia’s down and the apartment is blissfully quiet.
“She should be good for at least four hours,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside me.
“How are you not completely exhausted?”
“Oh, I am,” he says with a quiet laugh. “But I got lucky with our nanny. She’s a miracle worker.”
“I thought she only worked during the day?”
“She does. But she’s helped me organize everything. Dinner’s prepped, fridge is always stocked, appointments are scheduled, laundry done. It’s like living with a project manager for parenting.”
He stands and walks to a sleek bar cart. “I think we’ve earned a real drink. Scotch or bourbon?”
“I like both. Dealer’s choice. Make it two.”
“With or without ice?”
“Neat,” I say. “Ice waters down the burn.”
He grins and pours. When he hands me a glass, our fingers brush. Warmth skates across my skin.
“To surviving bedtime,” he says, lifting his glass.
“And to making purée look sexy,” I reply, clinking mine to his.
He laughs, settling close beside me. Our knees touch. My breath catches.
“Thanks for staying,” he says.
“Like I had a choice?”
“You could’ve gone home to your tidy, peaceful place and left me here, carrot-stained and outnumbered.”
I smile. “I kind of like watching you manage the madness. It’s a good glimpse of the real you.”
He raises a brow. “There are other ways to get to know me…”
He wiggles his eyebrows.
“Preferably with our clothes on,” I tease, bumping his shoulder.
He chuckles. “Ask me anything. I’m an open book.”
“Okay…” I lean back, smirking. “Pineapple pizza or candy corn?”
He groans. “Evil. Neither.”
“Wrong answer. Pineapple’s great, just not with tomato sauce.”
“Every time I go to Canada for diamond buying, they love Hawaiian pizza. Canadians are unhinged.”
“Crazy Canadians,” I mutter, grinning. “All right, next. Sauces on top or on the side?”
A wicked gleam lights his eyes. “I’m flexible. I don’t mind it on top…or down below.”
I nearly snort my drink. “Why do I feel like we’re not talking about food anymore?”
“Could be,” he says with a grin. “Your turn. Tattoos or piercings?”
“Tattoos. No question.” I tilt my head. “Do you have any?”
He flashes a slow, knowing smirk, and then stands, grabbing the hem of his T-shirt.
Oh. My. God.
He pulls the shirt over his head, and I instantly forget how to breathe. My mouth might actually be open. I don’t care.
Ink swirls across his skin—dark lines, elegant curves, stories etched in black and shadow. The artwork is stunning. No cartoon clichés. Just art. Just raw, beautifully rendered stories etched into skin.
I fan myself. “Wow. Okay…that’s not what I expected.” He’s not just hot. He’s art . Strong lines, etched stories, power and vulnerability carved into skin. My fingers itch to trace every inch.
He chuckles. “Most of them mean something.”
He gestures to a pair of doves near his collarbone. “These are for my mom and dad. All my brothers and sister have the same tattoo.” Then he points to a row of small, minimalist symbols running along his ribs. “These represent my siblings.”
My hand moves before I can stop it. “Can I?”
He nods, his expression shifting, eyes darker now, mouth softer.
I reach out, fingertips grazing one of the lines. His skin is warm, and the ink is just slightly raised beneath my touch. I trace the edge of a wing, then a line that curves toward his side.
“What about you?” he asks, his voice quieter now. Rougher. “Any tattoos?”
I laugh, feeling suddenly shy. “I almost got one. A teddy bear or maybe a dolphin, right here.” I point to my right hip. “But I could never commit. Tattoos are forever, and let’s just say my taste in cute animals didn’t survive college.”
He smiles, and it’s softer now. Like I’ve said something that touched a place he doesn’t let many people reach. “Not the worst reason to skip it.”
I let my fingers linger on his chest a beat longer, then drop my hand and meet his gaze.
“You’re full of surprises, Matteo Marino.”
He sinks back onto the couch, shirt still off, his eyes never leaving mine.
“So are you, Ellory Matisse.” For a second, neither of us moves. It’s not just attraction. It’s something heavier. I see it in his eyes. I feel it in mine. And it scares me.