Page 11 of Strikeout


Font Size:

“Money.” His voice rises an octave. “Uh—here.” He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and hands me a black American Express card. My eyes widen, and my eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t want you using your money when you’re out with Anna. If you guys stop to eat or need to buy something, you use this card.” I nod, studying the heavy piece of metal in my hand. “Foryou as well.” My eyes reach his once more. “When you’re on the clock, your meals are on me. If Anna needs school supplies or… you know… girl stuff.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

I smirk. “What exactly constitutes as ‘girl stuff,’ Mateo?”

“Use your discretion, Isabella,” he grumbles.

There he goes again, only saying my full name in its Spanish pronunciation. I guess I’ve become so familiar with my peers using the English version that the Spanish version now makes me feel… unsteady.

So I resort to my usual go to. I make a joke.

“Got it, boss. So do Hermès bags fall under ‘girl stuff,’ or…”

He releases a deep breath, as if he’s been holding it in this whole time.

I raise my hand to stop him before he can get a word in. “That was a joke, Mateo. I know this is not your ideal situation, but I promise to make the best out of it. Yes, I might make a joke here or there, because that’s who I am. But I promise you, there will only be extreme professionalism coming from me. You can rest easy knowing that it truly is my pleasure to be a part of Anna’s life right now, especially at a time that must be so exciting yet nerve-racking for her.”

His face softens at the mention of his daughter. It’s a great reminder that I should keep all conversations limited to her in order to make sure this working relationship progresses without a hitch.

He nods as he takes a step back. “I didn’t really get the chance to give you the full house tour, but I’ll be sure to do it tomorrow. Our bedrooms are upstairs, in case you need anything. The pantry and fridge are stocked. But, um, try to not eat the grilled chicken and broccoli stuffed Tupperware. Those are the lunches I take to practice.”

“I’ll use all my willpower to keep my hands off your carbless meals,” I tease.

A ghost of a smile flashes across his face before he dips his head.

“Now go enjoy your dinner with your family. I’ll be ready by seven a.m.”

He knocks on the doorframe twice. “All right. Good night, Isabella.”

“Good night, Mateo.”

seven

A good night, itis not.

Because it’s midnight, and I am about ready to chew my left arm off due to hunger. I knew calling it an early night would be risky after only eating a bodega sandwich when I went home to pack.

But now my stomach has progressed to making whale noises that I fear will echo around the apartment.

The last bit of movement I heard was around eight p.m. when Anna loudly said goodbye to her grandmother. After that, they probably went through Anna’s bedtime routine.

It’s been almost four hours since I’ve heard even a pin drop, and I truly don’t think I can hold out anymore.

I kinda wish Mateo would have gotten me a robe to match the hotel like slippers I found beside the bathroom vanity to help cover up my mismatched pajama tank top and sleep shorts.

Not that I’m complaining, since that vanity was filled with a toothpaste brand so fancy, I’ve never heard of it, a cool-looking electric toothbrush, a stack of the world’s softest towels, and an absurd amount of cherry ChapStick.

That last one made me laugh. I always carried one with me while vacationing with them, and I’m pretty sure I got Anna hooked on them. She was always trying to mimic my morning routine alongside me, and she quickly learned that I go nowhere without my ChapStick and maybe even a backup.

So I’m sure he probably grabbed these from Anna’s stash.

Without anything to help cover up my fashion faux pas, I decide to bite the bullet and make this the quickest kitchen raid in history and hope it doesn’t look like a rabid raccoon was let loose inside their home.

I crack open my bedroom door to make sure the coast is clear. Once I’m certain it’s safe to make my escape, I book it. But not before holding on to my boobs, because even though I’m sure jiggly tits don’t make too much noise, you can never be too careful.

I’m about to head straight to the pantry, when I decide it’s best to grab a water first, since I’m also thirsty. Once the bright light of the massive refrigerator greets me, I’m half-stunned. Because even though everything is perfectly sealed, I can still smell the sofrito goodness within these Tupperware containers. I lean in farther to confirm that I’m right, and there is some carne guisada, along with arroz con habichuelas in here.

And my favorite type of plantain taunts me as the plátano maduro stares at me longingly from the back of the fridge. I quickly decide it’s too late to try to microwave anything and risk alerting anyone to the fact that I’ve turned into the rabid raccoon I feared I would become and instead lean almost my entire upper body into the fridge so I can grab the sparkling lemon water in the back corner.

I can feel my shorts riding up as I continue to reach for the bubbly goodness, to the point where the cool air brushes along my exposed ass cheeks.