Page 37 of Good as Gold
“Alone?” I clarify, just in case he means that in a fun way.
“Yep.”
Zara cracks up.
Darn it.
He throws an arm around me and steers me out of the bar and over to the private entrance to the condos upstairs. “Can you open the door? Or tell me the code?”
My fingers feel thick and stumbly, so I recite the sequence of numbers. He opens the door and steers me inside. The ceilings in this old building are very tall, so when I look up the staircase, I sigh. “It’s alotof stairs.”
“I noticed that,” he says with a dry chuckle. “But here we go.”
“Oh!” Suddenly, I’m lifted off the ground. It’s a little shocking, but not unpleasant. I wrap my arms around his strong chest and lay my cheek against his shoulder. “You know, this shirt is really tight.”
“So I’ve been told. Otto said it would be good for tips.”
“I’d tip you,” I agree in a low voice. “All night long.”
He makes a strangled noise.
“Sorry.” I must be heavy. Good thing I’m on the second floor.
He sets me down gently in front of the door. “Keys?”
I find them in my pocket and hand them over. He unlocks the door and escorts me inside. “Nice place,” he says, eyeing the cheery brick walls, the beams on the ceiling, and the big old windows. “Wow.”
Itisa nice place. “My mom helped me furnish it. I left Rory everything, because he was so mad at me. The only thing I took was my grandma’s china. And her dining table.” I point toward the pine, gate-leg table against the wall. “It’s been in my family for four generations. And Rory called me a thief for taking it.”
He frowns. “Interesting.”
“It’s not even valuable, but I love it. My mother helped me with the rest.” I’ve got a big, boho-style sofa with loosely draped slipcovers and a giant beaded ottoman. There’s a console table against the far wall with a modest little TV, because I don’t watch much TV.
“Let’s sit,” I suggest, shuffling toward the sofa. “My favorite thing to do is put my feet up and read. Or sometimes I just sit and think about how I spent all those prime childbearing years married to the wrong man.”
Matteo laughs and sits down next to me. “You’ll be okay, Leila. Tonight was just rough.”
“It was. But I went to the doctor today. So now I know that a stranger’s sperm is going to cost me a thousand dollars a pop.”
“Come again?” he asks in a strangled voice.
“Exactly. Every time the sperm donor shakes hands with the milkman, it costs a grand. And I’ll probably need five or six vials. If that fails, I’m looking at IVF for twelve thousand.”
Matteo whistles. “What a racket.”
I hiccup. “Yeah. Unless I find a donor privately. That’s complicated. But I kind of hate having a kid with a stranger. They’re supposed to screen them. But not everyone knows their medical history, you know?” I shiver. “So much trust to place in a sperm bank.”
“Wild,” he says. “Can I make you a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Oh!” I can hardly believe that he remembers that’s my nighttime drink. “That sounds so nice.”
“And maybe some aspirin?” He gets off the couch. “Is it in the medicine cabinet?”
“Yeah,” I say, sinking down into the sofa. I feel super drunk all of a sudden. I shouldn’t let him take care of me, but it’s sonice.
I actually nod off while he fusses in my kitchen, but I wake up enough to sip the tea and swallow the pills.
Then he sits down on the sofa right beside me. Close enough to touch. And I flop my heavy body onto his sturdier one. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m kind of a mess.”
