Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)
“Mercedes?”
“Si?”
“I can’t find the white bean soup I made yesterday,” I say as I rifle through the massive refrigerator. “The potato and string bean salad I prepared last night is also gone. And I can’t find the strawberries I bought at Whole Foods.”
Mercedes is Shaw’s housekeeper/estate manager/keeper of his secrets. She’s the only other person that lives on the property, and was assigned to watch Sam before I came along. Shaw is ocd level fastidious about keeping the house clean. Really, it’s just too large a house for one person, but apparently the Prince of Darkness doesn’t trust anyone other than his beloved Mercedes. Overworked and exhausted, I can safely say that Mercedes was probably the happiest person in the house to see me move in. Ergo, Mercedes and I bonded instantly.
She gives me a puzzled look. My thoughts immediately shoot to Shaw. I swear I’ll murder him in his sleep if I find out he’s been throwing out my food.
“I’m making bucatini with fresh tomato sauce, would you like some?” Mercedes informs me that she’s going to dinner at her daughter’s house, and departs shortly afterward.
In the refrigerator, I push aside all the containers of his food. On day two, I found out that he gets his meals prepared and delivered. A plant based diet with a ridiculous list of ingredients that he can’t consume because they cause “inflammation” in his hundred million dollar body. No tomatoes, no mushrooms––ever. No eggplant. No peppers. And God forbid you cook with olive oil. Basically, every Italian on the planet is screwed. Including, yours truly. And the list goes on and on. No coffee, no caffeine, not to mention sugar and flour. Fine. Whatevs. I get why he’s so cranky all the time now.
Tonight I’m making a fresh tomato sauce with artisanal bucatini for dinner. Super inflammatory. Sitting at the counter, Sam watches me intently for a while. Until I ask him to join me in the kitchen, where he proceeds to help me smash up the ripe vine tomatoes while wearing a big fat smile on his face. In just a few days, he’s already started to open up. I’m finally getting a vocal, albeit softly spoken, yes and no from him, and quite frankly couldn’t be happier with the progress we’ve made.
After the pasta is cooked and drained, I poor the sauce on while Sam sets up the plates and utensils on the island counter since there isn’t a kitchen table for us to sit at. I have no idea what the routine was at his mother’s house, but I suspect there weren’t many family meals.
“Sam, did I mention that my mom makes the best chocolate cake ever?” He looks up bright eyed from the pasta he’s busy devouring and says an actual ‘no.’
“Would you like to go to my parents’ house for dinner sometime?” His enthusiastic nod makes my heart hurt.
Shaw stalks into the kitchen, his expression thunderous. “Who the hell is Camillia Blake?” The jerk actually mispronounced my name.
Instantly, Sam’s whole demeanor changes. He retreats back into his shell. Which pisses me off beyond measure. Me, I’m no shrinking violet. And I grew up in New Jersey. If men shouting and throwing around macho bravado bothered me, I would’ve been confined to a padded room ages ago. However, I can only imagine how intimidating this growling, hairy beast must seem from a child’s perspective.
I throw the shackles off my tongue because the hundred thousand is already sittin’ pretty in my bank account and that pleasurable golden nugget is always at the forefront of my mind.
“That’d be moi, Calvin.” His scowl deepens. “Although, I’d prefer it if you didn’t butcher my name. It’s pronounced Camilla. Or is that too much information for your brain to process at once?”
His eyes go wide. “My office,” he snaps, stalking out of the kitchen without waiting for a response.
Sam’s big gray eyes flicker to me in worry. I run my fingers through his chestnut hair and smile.
“Eat your supper and we’ll read a book as soon as I’m done talking to your uncle.” The doubt on Sam’s face makes me want to throat punch Shaw into tomorrow.
When I walk into his office, Shaw is standing with his extra large hands planted on his hips. For the first time in my life, I consider what it would feel like to be hit by hands that size, and my stomach does a flippy thing. I immediately play offense.
“You’ve just undone all the hard work I accomplished in three days.” I go for broke and point up at him aggressively. “He shuts down immediately when he senses your anger. Or have you been hit in the head so may times that you haven’t even noticed?” My tone sets him back on his heels. He looks unsure how to respond. “I suggest you either see a shrink, do some yoga, or get on medication. In other words, chill the heck out.” He’s shocked at my fortitude. Mission accomplished. I turn to leave.