Page 61 of Chasing Hope

It’s refreshing.

Carter wouldn’t even try. He’d throw his hands in the air, quite literally groaning like a toddler when he wanted me to shut up and stop asking questions, and push me out of the way to take over.

Matteo hasn’t asked how I got better at cooking, and I’m gladfor it. Then I’d have to tell him that I can count on one hand the number of times Carter cooked for us in the two years we were together. All the other times, the responsibility landed squarely on my shoulders. I actually began to love cooking, no matter how average I was at it, but that took a turn when his personality and treatment of me seemingly changed overnight.

Suddenly, I could only cook foods he liked, regardless of what I wanted. Suddenly, it went from both of us grocery shopping to him scoffing and rolling his eyes when I suggested he help out with the shopping run when I was swamped with work.

There was a two-month period where I was working from seven in the morning until nine at night and he didn’t lift a finger. Two months of fourteen-hour days and yet I was still the only one cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, washing dishes, and taking out the trash.

That was my life.

Labor, on all fronts.

Emotionally carrying his burdens that he forced upon me. Solely performing the household chores even though I felt like I was already working two jobs. Not to mention upholding the responsibility of the relationship on my shoulders as well.

I wish I had slapped him when I found him with Felicity.

It’s my one regret. That, and not breaking up with him the first time he laughed in my face after he hurt me.

Again, I’m not a violent person, but when someone takes advantage of you, belittles you, utterlydestroysyou by chipping away at you over two years, a lot of anger and injustice accumulates, and you end up wishing you had slapped the bastard.

The moment I found him sleeping with Felicity, I swore to myself then and there that I wouldneverallow another person to ever treat me so horribly.

Matteo’s calming voice lulls me from the god-awful memories. “Has anyone shown you the best way to tell if pasta is ready?”

“No?”

“That a question or a statement, Dove?”

“Depends on how you test if it’s ready.”

Grinning, Matteo leans forward, using a spoon to scoop out a piece of pasta. Before I can blink, he turns, throwing it against the wall. The wet slapping sound accompanies my gasp.

“What the hell?”

Matteo cocks his head as he watches the pasta slowly slide down the wall. “Fuck, it must only work on spaghetti.”

I fall forward on a laugh, the sound loud and boisterous, uncontrollable. “Oh my god!” I say through a wheeze. “You did not just do that.”

As I’m bent over, something wet and sticky slaps my back. Gasping, I straighten to find Matteo, pasta in hand. “Did you just?—”

A rigatoni smacks me square in the forehead.

My eyes widen comically before I hiss, “You are so dead.”

Matteo tries to flee the room. Quickly grabbing a bowl and spoon, I heave out nearly an entire bowl of noodles before chasing after him. His feet slap against the stairs and, rounding the corner, I rear back as another noodle hits me, this one in the chest.

Matteo’s laugh does something to my insides, warming my blood that all I can manage to do is squeal before following. Grabbing a fistful, my arm is back and ready to strike, and at the top of the stairs, I launch the pasta.

The rigatoni explodes along his chest and face.

My laugh is borderline manic. But when that competitive glint enters his eyes, my chuckle turns into a blood-curdling scream as I spin, running for my bedroom, only to remember there isn’t a lock on my door.

“Oh no you don’t,” he growls from somewhere behind me.

His hand brushes my waist and in a panic, I spin, throwing the entire bowl of pasta at him. Rigatoni cascades down his body, but despite his shock, he doesn’t stop coming for me.

Matteo wraps his muscular arms around my waist and takes me to the floor with him, the pasta that was once on his chest now falling over me. He throws his hand out, softening our fall, before he makes quick work, sliding his fingers under the hoodie I’m wearing and tickling me.