Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Yeah… it’s great content.” The elevator reaches my floor and I get off.
“You like her,” she teases.
“No, I don’t,” I insist out of habit more than anything. I enter my room, letting the door fall shut behind me.
“Matteo,” she says, her voice already loaded with suspicion. “Don’t lie. I can hear your guilty face through the phone.”
I snort as I plop down on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is. You get all squinty and weird like you’re passing a kidney stone.”
“Wow. Thanks, Ma.”
She waits. Doesn’t press. Lets the silence stretch like she’s got all day and knows I’ll crack.
“Yeah… so she’s got great content.”
And then I lamely go quiet.
“Her rabbit’s a menace,” my mom says in a tone that is meant to prod me into conversation.
“Yeah… Buttermilk is basically a scathing ball of fluff on four legs.” I chuckle. “So you’ve seen the videos?”
“Matty, please. I know everything about my kids and grandkids.”
I laugh. “Of course you do. Well… she’s just—she’s something else. Smart, hilarious, sharp as hell. But this whole dating challenge, trying to find a ‘normal guy…’”
“And you’re the curveball,” she says firmly.
“I’m the extra-credit essay she didn’t ask for.” I glance at the clock on the bedside table. “She says I’m not normal enough.”
“Oh, honey,” she drawls, “you haven’t been normal since you were born with those ocean-colored eyes and eyelashes that make girls swoon. But you are steady. You’re good. You open doors and remember birthdays and say thank you to waitstaff. That counts.”
“Yeah, but she had a date with a guy last night that she apparently found to be refreshingly normal.”
“She also went to breakfast with you and posted about it like she just met her leading man in a movie,” my mom counters. “I’ve seen the way she talks about you in those videos. That girl really likes you.”
“She apparently likes Nate too,” I grumble.
“But he’s not you,” she says, as only a mother can with that pride in her voice. “He can’t hold a candle to you.”
I reach over and grab the room service menu and place it on my lap to flip through it. “You’re saying that because you’re my mom.”
“So sue me,” she teases. “What do you like about her?”
“She’s adorable,” I admit, eyeballing the eggs Benedict but reconciling probably not the best choice on game day. “And it’s fun. Like, genuinely fun. I feel like I’m getting to know someone worth getting to know and that’s not happened to me before.”
“Then stop worrying about what box you fit in. You’re not average, but you’re not a circus act either. You’re Lucky. And if she doesn’t see how rare that is, then she’s not as smart as I thought.”
I grin, because honestly, I don’t need advice—I just wanted to talk to someone who gets it.
“Thanks, Ma.”
“Text me when you kiss her,” she says. “Not a selfie. I’m not a creep. Just confirmation. And maybe an ETA on grandkids.”
“Bye, Ma.”
“I’m just saying, Matteo, that girl’s got future daughter-in-law potential.”
I let that settle and I’m not as wigged out by that as I should be.
“Bye, Ma.” I don’t bother addressing the potential wife thing.
“You call me after the game,” she orders. “Unless you break something. Then call the trainer first and me second.”
“Deal.”
“I’ll be watching. Good luck and I love you.”
“Love you too.”
We hang up and I stare at my phone for a while. My thumb hovers over Winnie’s name in my messages.
But I don’t type anything.
Not now.
I’ll wait.
Let her mull over her experiment. Let her test the waters and see what’s out there.
Because I know what I bring to the table. And when she’s ready?
She’ll know too.
CHAPTER 13
Winnie
Sunday dinner at my parents’ house is a sacred event but there are rules.
You show up on time. You bring Tupperware because Mom cooks like she’s feeding a minor league baseball team, but she doesn’t want to lose her good storage containers to her heathen kids. And if you bring your pet rabbit on a leash, you better believe he’s getting his own designated litter box in the laundry room.
Which is why I’m currently kneeling in my parents’ mudroom, setting up Buttermilk’s bathroom corner while he sniffs at everything like a TSA agent.
“Don’t chew on that,” I warn as he noses a pair of my dad’s Crocs. “Those are… well, actually, you can have those. They’re hideous.”
The rabbit cocks a furry but distrustful eyebrow at me, thumps twice in annoyance and proceeds to hop into the kitchen. I follow him and am hit by the holy trifecta of Sunday dinner smells—garlic, butter and something distinctly roast-y.
My mother, Carol Shaw—library reference assistant extraordinaire, cardigan queen and podcast junkie—glances down at Buttermilk who’s snuffling around her ankles. She’s wearing her “Kiss the Cook” apron I got her years ago for her birthday, sipping red wine and chopping parsley like she’s on Top Chef.