Keeley ran and grabbed the strawberry shortcake she had made. She tried to force-feed me a spoonful of the berry-filled, crumbly scone and whipped cream.
“Eat it!” she insisted. “You need to eat this now.”
Splat!
“Ow!” Keeley yelled as one of the doughballs hit her in the face.
“Get away from him,” Morticia warned.
“You can’t have him all to yourself.” Keeley started sobbing. “This isn’t fair. I demand a recount!”
Dorothy took a bite of one of the strawberry shortcakes. “It’s fine,” she said with a shrug. “It’s pretty basic though.”
I was reeling after the bake-off had ended. My parents had been so dismissive and rude!
I couldn’t even be all that elated that Morticia had stood up for me, because she had done it to my father. He was never going to let me live that down. He hated being wrong, he hated when people called him out, and he hated any perception that he was not in control of a situation. And Morticia had been in complete control.
I wondered if she still wanted to even be with me. I stared out my office window. I was supposed to be prepping for the next day’s meeting. I needed to break it to Greg that we were not going to slam twenty towers into the ground. He was not going to be pleased.
I wondered if Morticia thought less of me now that she had seen the way my parents acted. Was she worried I was going to turn out like my father?
There was knocking on the glass door. Morticia was there with a stack of boxes. “Busy?” she asked in that raspy voice. “I brought you something to eat.”
“That was nice of you.”
She huffed a laugh. “I had an ulterior motive. I wanted an excuse to use your kitchen and play with your cat and not have to be stuck in that tiny apartment with Keeley.”
I cocked my head. “How did you even get inside?”
She pulled my key card out of her pocket. “Filched it off of you.”
I patted my pockets and took out my wallet. Sure enough, the card was missing.
“I should give you your own,” I told her as I opened the first box.
“Oh, are we at that point yet?” she teased.
I breathed in as the smell of rich, salty spaghetti carbonara wafted up. “If you’re going to make me food like this,” I remarked, “then yeah, you can have a key card.”
That earned me a small smile.
“Besides,” I said as I took a big bite of the pasta, the fatty bits of prosciutto bursting on my tongue. “Whoever wins the bake-off—and I’m pretty sure at this point that it’s going to be you—is supposed to do a reality TV show with me to document our blossoming relationship.”
“Somehow I doubt your sister used that word,” Morticia said dryly.
“So that’s a little of my own flair. But the point is you’re going to be stuck here for another few months at least,” I said cheerfully. “It will be great! You can work at my company if you want or do whatever artist stuff you do. We always need marketing.” I twirled another bite of pasta around my fork then looked up at her and smiled. “I love having you in my life, Morticia.”
“Right,” she said faintly. She cleared her throat. “I have desserts in that other box—cookies, Struffoli. Have to run.”
What was her deal? I was suddenly anxious. She wasn’t going to leave, was she? I thought she wanted to be with me.
Maybe she’s just tired. She made you all this food, after all, and took care of your cat, I told myself. Concentrate on Hamilton Yards.