CHAPTER 15 – TRIPLE TEAMED AND A SPECIAL MEATBALL
Eliza
My car keys hit the hall table with a jingle, and that’s when I let my shoulders slump.
All energy drains from my body, and I feel totally limp.
If the house were empty, I’d collapse right here.
But I know Jack’s home—the scent of garlic and browning meat drifting down the hall is an immediate, gut-level comfort, that I just exhale in shuddery, pathetic bursts.
Today was a masterclass in workplace discomfort.
I’ve survived a hundred shit days at the law firm, but today was an Olympic event: every woman in admin whispering at the coffee machine, every lawyer suddenly over-polite, every intern shooting me these sideways, predatory looks.
The rumor mill must’ve been running on rocket fuel because even the paralegals I’d never spoken to all wore the same look: “She’s the one.
The girl who’s living with that older guy.
And I mean old, old.” I wanted to be invisible; instead, it felt like I was the opening act in a very public shame game.
I wonder if the partner with the bad breath and wandering hands even remembers grabbing my ass at the holiday party, or if the fact I’m sleeping with an “older man” (gasp!) now overwrites every other narrative.
I try to will away the stress as I shuffle toward the kitchen, following the aroma of delicious food and the promise of Jack. I kick off my heels, toes aching, and pad forward, stomach clenched tight with a hunger that is definitely not just for dinner.
My man is at the stove, wearing a dark blue button-down and his ancient, threadbare “United States Air Force” apron that was a gag gift from long ago.
He looks incredibly handsome, as usual, his brow furrowed in concentration with those broad shoulders looming over a pan.
He’s plating something onto real dishes—ceramic, with a blue stripe around the rims. Candles, actual candles, glow at intervals along the kitchen island and the nearby dining table.
He’s put out the fancy stemware, too, even though the last time we used it I broke one with a very embarrassing accident involving my elbow and a distraction named Jack’s tongue.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Survive the mines today?”
I manage a noise that’s supposed to be a laugh but comes out like a tire puncture. “Barely. But now I see you’ve set up a romantic dinner, which means you either want to sleep with me, or you’ve committed a crime and want to soften the blow.”
He grins, lines around his eyes bunching. “Both, maybe.”
I drop my bag by the counter and let myself admire my boyfriend again for a second.
In this light, he looks absolutely magnetic: blue eyes bright, that black hair with its tiny hint of salt at the temples, jaw rough and manly.
If he’s nervous about my mood, he doesn’t show it, just turns off the stove and gestures at the nearest barstool.
“Sit. Drink. Eat. In that order,” he says, pouring wine with an easy wrist-flick that would make even my mother forgive his existence for a solid minute.
The kitchen smells like heaven—herbs, meat, something deeply savory—and I have to keep myself from moaning as I sit down and let him fill my glass.
He slides a plate of pasta in front of me, cavatelli with what looks like a meat ragu that’s thick and hearty, then settles in on the stool next to me, his knee bumping mine.
“Are you going to eat,” I ask, “or just watch me inhale carbs and cry?”
He grins and lifts his own plate. “I like watching you eat, sweetheart. It’s proof you’re not a robot. Even though you look like one of those cute anime girls when you’re stressed out.”
I twirl pasta on my fork, pile it high, and take a gigantic bite just to prove a point. The first taste nearly makes me weep. Real garlic. Real cheese. “Holy moly,” I croon, “are you secretly Italian? Because this is, like, restaurant level.”
Jack shrugs, obviously pleased. “Pilot training in Sicily. I picked up a few things.”
I swallow another bite and let the quiet envelop us, allowing myself to be cared for, because it feels right with this man.
Jack watches me for a beat, then reaches out to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear.
The gesture is so gentle, so unlike anything I ever experienced growing up, that I melt utterly.
In a soft voice, I begin. “You know what they’re saying at work, right? ”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Somebody recognized you. One of the junior associates. I guess he saw us together somewhere, and pieced it together.”
Jack’s lips twitch. “Okay, but who cares what some boy thinks? He’s just blowing air.”
I poke at the meat with my fork, reluctant to ruin the taste with gossip. “Well, he said you used to bang his aunt. She’s, like, mid-fifties. Is that true?”
Jack laughs, the sound dry and unbothered. “I plead the fifth, but that’s definitely possible. I’ve been around for a while, sweetheart. I’m not a virgin, and you know that.”
“Ugh.” I take another, more aggressive bite. “Anyway, he spread it all over that we’re dating. People think I’m some kind of sex-crazed gold digger with a thing for DILFs.”
Jack’s expression is unchanging, but the hand on my thigh is warm and steady. “Would you rather they thought you were boring?”
I snort. “I’d rather they didn’t think about me at all. I used to be invisible at that firm.”
He pours more wine. “People who try to live invisible never do. Trust me.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, the food slowly working its magic on my anxiety. I can feel my shoulders relax, the stress slowly evaporating. Jack finishes his plate, sets it aside, and just looks at me, head cocked.
“You want to talk about it,” he says, not a question.
“About what?”
He shrugs. “About your day. About your mom’s text messages. About the cam site, about the fact that your friends all think you joined a cult. About this dude at work spreading rumors about your dating life.”
“Do you think it’s weird?” I ask suddenly, the question popping out of me like an air bubble. “That we’re living together already?”
Jack is so handsome when he looks at me that it almost hurts. “Eliza, you want to be here. So who gives a shit?”
I drop my fork, food forgotten. “I do want to be here,” I say, softer than I mean to. “But I’m still kind of terrified.”
Jack slides off his stool, comes around the island, and pulls me up from my seat. He just stands there, strong arms wrapped around my waist, and lets me lean in as much or as little as I want. I bury my face in his shirt, breathing in the scent of him—soap, spice, and a little bit of smoke.
He kisses the top of my head, lips gentle. “You’re safe here, Eliza. Nobody gets to judge you in this house.”
I let the words sit in my bones for a minute, then pull back. “What if I want to be judged? What if I like being the deviant?”
Jack grins, a flash of white teeth. “Then I’ll judge you all night, in every room of the house. Every surface, even.”
I giggle. “Oh my god.”
He smirks.
“Exactly. Now wipe your chin, sweetheart. You have pasta sauce everywhere.”
He hands me a napkin and I clean up, suddenly shy. He watches me with a warmth that makes my skin hot, but doesn’t push.
When the plates are cleared and the candles burned low, he disappears to the pantry, then returns with a tiny silver-wrapped box.
“OMG, what’s this?” I ask, eyeing the package. “You didn’t have to, Jack.”
My boyfriend shrugs, hands shoved in his pockets. “I wanted to commemorate you moving in, actually. So your timing is perfect, sweetheart. Open it.”
I glance at him, then at the box, then slowly peel back the wrapping paper. Inside is a keychain—silver, cool in my palm—with a tiny, silver meatball attached. How strange! I turn it over, then see the engraving on the back: “June 14th—The BBQ.”
Oh my god! It’s the day I dropped a meatball onto Jack’s foot at my parents’ barbecue! It was the first day we re-met after he retired from the Air Force, and the day our relationship began. The day I began scheming how to entrap my gorgeous Uncle Jack.
I stare at the keychain, heart pounding, and my vision goes blurry.
“A meatball?” I say, the words barely making it out. “It’s sweet. Or salty, should I say? Or savory?”
Jack looks at me, and for the first time ever, he’s nervous. “I wanted you to know you’re not just a guest here. You’re home, Eliza. Even if your dad never talks to us again, even if the whole town thinks we’re deviants. I want you to stay.”
The dam breaks. I start to cry, loud and messy, the kind of sobbing I hate myself for, but Jack just pulls me in and lets me soak his shirt for the second time in twenty-four hours.
“I love you,” I say, voice ugly and wrecked. “Thank you for being so kind. For taking care of me.”
He squeezes me tighter. “I love you too, sweetheart. And now you have the meatball to prove it.”
We stand there for a long time, holding each other, until the candles gutter and the only sound is my sniffling.
Finally, when I can speak again, I hold up the keychain. “Does this mean I get a key to the house?”
Jack laughs. “You’ve had a key since the first night. You just never used it.”
“Oh.” I swallow, cheeks red. “I was scared it wouldn’t work.”
He wipes my face with the back of his hand. “It’ll work. Every. Single. Time.”
I kiss him, slow and grateful, then slip the keychain onto my lanyard, right next to my office badge and the USB drive that holds all my secrets.
For the umpteenth time since I walked in, I feel at home. I feel seen, even with all my weirdness, anxieties, and flaws. I feel wanted. This man is my home, and I adore him with every cell of my being.
The next thing I want—more than food, more than sleep, more than even a minute of peace—is to make this man feel exactly what he makes me feel. Desired. Real. The only true thing I’ve ever done.
I look up at him, eyes coquettish, and say, “Bedroom?”
Jack grins, so handsome that my knees go weak. “You’re the boss, sweetheart.”
And I am.