His grandma’s magic meatballs cured everything.
If not everything, at least they brought them all a little culinary bliss. He tasted a bite. Perfection. A blend of beef, a little veal, some pork, and oregano, basil, pepper, a touch of sugar and some grated parmesan with a tiny bit of mozzarella. Loads of garlic, of course! Juicy and coated in homemade tomato sauce (was there any other kind? If it came in a jar it wasn’t real food), each bite was like stepping into an Italian restaurant in the North End in Boston, red velvet booths and low light and white-shirted waiters shouting in Italian.
“All that’s left is the salad. Give me a few minutes and I’ll have everything out.” He surveyed the countertop. Destroyed. Red sauce everywhere (really? How’d it get on the kitchen ceiling fan blades?), the backsplash a buffet of splotches, every large pot dirty and stacked crooked in the sink, and zero counter space. None.
“I’ll help,” Laura offered, peeling off Mike, who looked disappointed. Good.
“Great!” He handed her a decanter of olive oil and a cheese grinder. “Can you put the parm on the pasta and if it needs more oil, add some?”
“What about me?” Mike asked. “Need anything?”
“Set the table?” Mike nodded and made quick work of it, grabbing plates and shuttling to and fro between dining room and kitchen. It all felt so...domestic.
Until Mike put a dent in it. “Hey, Dyl!” he hissed, nodding to the hallway. Laura was tossing pasta and rotating the cheese grinder handle, sprinkles of parmesan snowing on the bowl of noodles.
“What’s up?” he asked, drying his hands on a towel.
“That whole no lying thing. Should we tell her about the—you know...” Mike made a reluctant face.
“The you know what?”
“The billionaire thing. She doesn’t want lies, and she considers not telling her something major to be a lie.”
Fuck. He hadn’t thought of that. If they kept this from her, eventually it would come out. Would she be angry they didn’t confide in her? Or would she understand why they wanted a little more time? It wasn’t about worrying that she’d become greedy, or view them as sugar daddies, or any of the normal reasons guys with money would hesitate to let a woman know.
They had so much money there wasn’t anything a woman could do to drain it anyhow, short of buying an island or a private jet, and even then—he shuddered, overwhelmed by the realization—it would just put a temporary dent in their cash flow. Jesus Christ. They really were filthy, stinking rich.
Next time, he was buying filet for dinner. Why had he made boring old pasta with meatballs? Sheesh.
“No way, man. Not tonight. It’ll scare her off,” he told Mike. Hell, he hadn’t even wanted poor Laura to have to get into talking about what he and Mike had done before. Anything that reminded her of negative feelings about them was off limits tonight. This dinner was about moving forward, not lingering in the past.
He wiggled his toes, feeling flour. Brushing his hand through his hair, he was shocked by the not inconsiderable amount that rained down on his shoulders and chest. Then he took a good look at the counter. Man, he was a slob.
But a slob who cooked some damn fine food.
“You don’t think we should take the opportunity?”
“I do—just not this opportunity.” Dylan blinked, struggling to explain himself. Finally, he just let arrogance take him where he needed to go. “Look, Mike. She’s vulnerable and unknowing right now. What women want at times like this is certainty. She doesn’t need truth. Oh—eventually, sure,” he said as Mike opened his mouth to protest. “Not now, though. What we all need is a quiet, comfortable, fun night where we get to know each other and—” He winked.
“Uh uh. No—” Mike winked back, exaggeratedly.
“OK, fine.” He sighed heavily. “I was on the fence anyhow. Not that I don’t want to, but more that—”
“That she needs time.”
“I think she needs us.”
“And time.”
“Not too much time, I hope.”
“We’re fucking lucky she’s here, Dylan,” Mike whispered. No anger. No frustration. Just a matter-of-fact statement.
“Not lucky,” he argued.
“Then what?”
Pink. Soft swells. Blonde hair. “Hey, guys?” Laura asked, head peering around the corner. “Ready to eat? I’m starving.” She raised her eyebrows, the skin pulling her nose up a tad and making her lips fuller. A cheerleader’s face. No—a smart cheerleader’s face.