Isabella was not interested in falling in love. Marco was not looking for a relationship.
The perfect combination for a foolproof agreement.
Right?
*
Isabella Hammond, the first female billionaire in her city, is a smart, straightforward and stunni...
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He's in my kitchen.
He's standing in my kitchen.
Why is he in my kitchen?
His back is turned to me as he tries to figure out which cupboard has the mugs. He opens the one right above the coffee maker, sees the mugs and punches a victorious fist into the air.
"I have been looking all over for you guys," he tells the mugs, softly.
He looks at the mug that I use every day.
"How does Isa take her coffee?" he asks it, gently.
With cream and sugar.
I don't know the expression on his face, but he's looking down at my mug in his hand. "Does she use you or one of your siblings here?" he asks, looking back up at the shelf of mugs, "You're the closest one, so I'm going to assume that you're the one she uses. So, how does she take her coffee?"
He sets the mug down on the counter and looks at the coffee maker. "She thinks that Ace is a bit psychotic to drink black coffee, so I'm going to assume that she likes cream and sugar."
Tentatively, he moves to the refrigerator.
It takes him a few seconds of searching to find the creamer.
He pulls it out, along with a few eggs, the butter, and cheese.
I want to ask him what he's doing, but that would mean that I have to announce my presence and I don't think I want to do that yet.
Marco looks at my closed drawers, like he's waiting for them to start talking to him. "Which one of you has the knives? The chopping boards? The forks? The spoons? The orange juicer?" With each item that he lists, he opens a new cupboard or drawer. "Ah!" He brandishes a dish. He sets it down on the counter, only then, seeming to notice the knife holder atop it. Putting his hands against the edge of the granite, he leans against the counter, shaking his head as he laughs to himself. "So, you're an idiot and you're blind," he tells himself.
It makes me smile.
It makes me smile how easy this feels; waking up to have Marco in the house talking to himself and the utensils the way he talks to his dog.
It makes me smile how much I want this to be my reality.
It takes my smile away that it's not.
There's an internal battle as I decide between making myself known and just watching him like a stalker.
"How does she like eggs?" Marco sings, softly to himself.
The perfect scramble with a sprinkling of pepper.
Marco holds up three eggs in one of his hands, and looks at them. "She likes devilled eggs. Those are hardboiled." He strokes his chin. "Devilled eggs are so much more than just hardboiled. I'm going to go with scrambled."
