“The one against the Segway tour company.”
“It wasn’t their fault. Something was worked out between the woman who crashed into me and the Segway company. Honesty, I’m not sure who paid for what. I just know that my medical expenses and time off work were covered.” She gives me a shoulder shrug. “That’s all that mattered to me. It’s not like I was permanently disabled. And I’m sitting just fine financially.” Another shoulder shrug.
“How un-American of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone sues for everything.”
“Oh. Ha! Yeah, I suppose that’s true. I’m not a fan of conflict.”
“Are you a fan of cooking?”
She uses the glass to hide her smirk as she pauses it at her mouth and shakes her head. “I can make like … three things.”
“Do tell.” I run warm water over the pasta in the strainer, dump it into the serving bowl, and pour the marinara over the top of it.
“Grilled cheese. Mac and cheese. Bean and cheese microwave burritos. That doesn’t count pouring cereal into a bowl in the morning. Oh! Peanut butter sandwiches and microwave nachos too. That’s five.” Dorothy grins, chin tipped up with so much pride.
“Not pasta?”
“I suppose I could, but I usually make more single-serving meals unless my mom cooks for all of us, which is risky because she’s not any better than I am at cooking. But she’s too stubborn to admit it. I rarely eat with them unless we go out or get takeout.”
“So you live with your parents?” I hold up a finger to pause her response while I call Roman to dinner. “Spaghetti, Roman!”
Dorothy takes a seat at the table as Roman careens around the corner, nearly crashing into me.
“Slow it down.” I pick him up, set him in his Stokke chair at the table, and fasten his bib.
“Do you like spaghetti?” Dorothy asks Roman as I set out the salads and bottles of dressing.
“Um … yes. I like … I like sketti.” He tugs at his bib. “Take it off!” Tugging harder, he growls at me.
“You’ll have sauce all over your clothes if I take it off. Just leave it on.”
“No. I won’t!”
“Roman …” I frown at him.
He closes his eyes and throws his head back. “Daddy, listen, listen, listen!”
Dorothy bites her lips to keep from smiling. I blame Julie for his constant, “listen, listen, listen.” She always shushes him and tells him to listen. And in the process, she’s created a defiant little monster that tries to get his way by always interrupting me and telling me to listen, even when he has no follow-up to his chanting “listen.”
“I’m listening.”
Roman opens his eyes, and just as I anticipated … nothing.
“Do you have another bib?” Dorothy asks.
I nod. “It won’t matter which bib, he just doesn’t want any bib.”
“I want a bib. I want a bib like little Romeo’s bib.” She removes his bib and fastens it around her neck. It never would fit around my neck, but Dorothy is petite. And cute … and sexy.
Gah!
Yes, she’s sexy. And it’s the last thing I should think about with my son sitting just inches from me.
Roman studies her for a few seconds. “Daddy, I want a bib!”
Dorothy … Dorothy … Dorothy …
The girl with an old lady name, an uncensored tongue, and the most contagious grin has managed to flip my world on its side. Only, she thinks she’s here for a possible babysitting position, not a date. Things are complicated.
After retrieving a bib and serving up the pasta and salads, I take a seat on the other side of Roman. “So you live with your parents?”
“Yes. But it’s not like you probably think,” she mumbles over her food.
Dorothy eating with a Cookie Monster bib around her neck … I can’t stop grinning. It shouldn’t surprise me. After all, she abandoned a patient, risking her job, just to tell me she’s a vegetarian. My mind stopped speculating anything about her long before she arrived at my house.
“I have no thoughts on the matter.” I twirl spaghetti around my fork while eyeing her.
“My uncle died. Left me a lot of money. Since I lived at home well into my adult life, I decided when I got a place of my own the right thing to do would be to let my parents live with me. I bought some land with an existing house on it and added onto it so they could live with me without actually living with me. We share a kitchen and laundry room. That’s it.”
“More, Daddy! More sketti!” Roman reaches for my plate.
I dish part of my spaghetti into his bowl. “You like it?” I smile at him before shifting my focus to Dorothy. “I hope our guest likes it.”
She pats her mouth with her napkin, cheeks puffed out with a mouthful of pasta, and she nods. After she swallows, she takes a drink of her water. “It’s good. Not chunky or too spicy. And the water is good too. It doesn’t have a funky taste to it … just how I like it.”