The Nanny with the Skull Tattoos (18 page)
Max spent the rest of the night wide awake, ears listening for the sound of doors opening and booted feet padding away. The house remained still, though. At one point he dozed off for a few minutes, head jerking up when he realized that he fell asleep. His heart pounded in his chest. Listening, he tried to determine whether Savannah had left.
“This is crazy,” he muttered to himself. Without realizing it, he had become one of those super possessive, creepy men. He turned onto his side, hugging an extra pillow to his chest. He wished he had never opened his mouth. She could be sleeping beside him, snuggled up next to him in his twin bed.
When the sun finally rose in the sky, Max gave up on sleeping. His eyes felt like they were full of gritty sand. He stumbled into the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face, he forced himself to come up with a plan. He had no idea what was going to happen when Savannah woke up. For all he knew, she planned on leaving for good. He dried off his face and padded into the kitchen.
Ambling toward the coffee pot, he yawned. The sound echoed off the kitchen walls. As he measured coffee grounds into the basket, it came to him. He could make breakfast and coffee for her. When she came out of her room, whether she planned on leaving or not, she would see the effort he had put into cooking for her.
Grinning, Max turned on the coffee machine and went into the living room. Turning on his computer, he drummed his fingers on his desk. He needed a recipe for something that she would love. The second his desktop appeared, he opened up his browser. Then he stared at the screen. He had no idea where to go to look for recipes.
Savannah never used recipes. Either she had a hidden cookbook, or great memory, he surmised. Scratching at the stubble on his face, he pulled up a search engine and typed in “breakfast recipes.” Almost a billion results poured onto the page.
Max gaped at the screen. Advertisements for cereals and toaster pastries boxed in the search results. He wished it were that simple. Gritting his teeth, he typed in “Puerto Rican breakfast recipes” instead. He skimmed through the list, then settled for
avena
. It looked the easiest, and he was pretty sure that it was the same thing that Savannah usually made for him and Chloe.
He didn’t have a printer, so he committed it to memory. Shutting down the computer, he raced back into the kitchen. It was only a matter of time before Savannah woke up.
According to the pictures on the recipe page,
avena
was basically milky oatmeal. Opening the cabinets and refrigerator, Max gathered his ingredients. He put everything on the counter and got to work.
Pulling out a pan, he poured in oats, measuring by eye. Then he added milk and turned the burner on medium. The oats floated on top, swirling in the milk. Shrugging, Max shook in cinnamon and sugar, then stirred it all together. Usually, he made oatmeal for himself and Chloe using the kind that came in packets. As it cooled, it thickened. He figured it was the same principle for the
avena
. After giving it another stir, he set the spoon down and went to the coffee pot. He poured two cups and carried them to the table. Then he went to the refrigerator, retrieved the carton of orange juice, and poured three glasses—one in a sippy cup for Chloe.
He set the table with bowls and spoons as the oatmeal continued to simmer. Standing back from the table, he stroked the stubble on his chin. Something was missing. He grabbed his hoodie from the back of a chair, shoved his feet into sneakers, and went across the street.
He had never noticed flowers in the bodega before, but they had everything else. If they didn’t have bouquets, he mused as he crossed the quiet street, he would be surprised.
The owner of the bodega pulled up the accordion gate that he locked the store with at night. He nodded to Max as he approached. “Good morning, friend,” he said.
“Morning,” Max greeted. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, shivering in the cool air. “Do you have flowers?”
The man gestured for Max to come inside. “Sorry,” he said as they entered the small store. He reached for the thermostat and turned on the heat. “Too early. The truck usually delivers around nine.”
Max’s shoulders slumped. “You don’t have any leftover from yesterday?”
Shaking his head, the owner of the bodega moved behind the counter. “Sold out,” he said. He plucked a fake rose glued inside of a glass tube from a cardboard display. “All I have are these.”
Max grimaced. “I can’t buy her a crack pipe,” he said.
The owner of the bodega snorted. Then he held up a finger. “Are you looking for something for that lady of yours?”
Nodding, Max gave the rest of the items on the counter a quick look. None of them were exactly love confession material. He supposed he could buy her some chocolate, but he had no idea what kind of candy was her favorite. He sighed. “Thanks anyway,” he said, heading toward the exit.
“Wait.”
Max turned around. The owner of the bodega held up a finger and disappeared into a room behind the counter. Max turned from the counter and ambled toward the coolers. He passed shelves of ice cream and beer. He wished he knew what kind of ice cream she liked and whether she liked to drink. He couldn't remember her ever drinking. Then again, she was usually watching Chloe.
Pausing at an end cap, Max picked up a small teddy bear holding a heart-shaped box of chocolate. It looked like it was the last thing left from Valentine’s Day. Sighing, he put it back down. It was just way too cheesy, he decided.
He wished he could buy her jewelry or something else meaningful. He wished that he hadn’t returned the leaf necklace. It wasn’t Valentine’s Day status, but it was something, at least. He strolled back toward the front of the store. “Thanks anyway,” he called, heading toward the door.
“Hold on, little buddy,” the owner of the bodega called from the back room.
Max paused. The man ambled back into the store. He carried a large and battered binder. Dropping it onto the counter, he flipped it open. Max peered at the wrinkled pages. Some of them were in plastic sleeves. Large, looping handwriting roamed over the lines of the pages. Squinting, Max tried to read it. The words were in Spanish, he realized. “What is that?” Max asked.
“My wife’s cookbook,” the owner of the bodega said. He tapped a page. “We were going to open a restaurant, but then she got sick. We thought about making our own foods to sell here at the store, but before we could get started, I lost her.” He smiled sadly.
“I’m sorry,” Max said.
The owner of the store closed the cookbook. “These are all
boricua
recipes. I can’t cook to save my life. Give this to your girl.” He pushed the binder toward Max.
“Are you sure?” Max asked. “I can’t take this from you.”
The man waved a hand at him. “Please. It’s collecting dust. That girl is in here all of the time, buying everything I’ve got. She
loves
cooking. She reminds me of my Marielis.”
Max held out his hand. The man shook it. “Thank you,” Max said. “She’s going to love this.”
Nodding, the owner of the bodega smiled.
“What’s your name, by the way?” Max asked. He had lived across the street from the bodega for almost three months and had yet to ask the man what his name was.
“Javier.” They shook hands again. Then Javier pushed the cookbook toward Max. “Go, son. Enjoy every minute of every day with her. Life is short.” He smiled. Max walked out of the bodega, the cookbook clutched to his chest.
Jogging across the street, Max felt a smile cross his lips. He climbed the steps to the porch and burst into the apartment. Frowning, he paused in the living room. The scent of burning food stung his nostrils. Eyes widening, he ran into the kitchen.
Savannah stood in front of the stove. She held a spatula in one hand and scraped at the pan that Max had been cooking the
avena
in.
Max groaned. He had completely forgotten about the food. He placed the binder on the table and shoved his hands into his pockets, head hanging.
Savannah turned, an eyebrow raised at him. “What in the world were you trying to make?” she asked.
Lifting his head, Max shrugged. “
Avena
,” he said.
She sighed. Gripping the spatula, she continued scraping at the pan. The sound grated against his ears. Max winced. “You know,” she said, “when you’re cooking, you’re supposed to watch what you’re making.” A smile danced on her lips, though.
“I wanted to make breakfast,” he said, leaning against the counter.
Savannah laughed. “Please don’t ever cook again.”
Smiling, Max nodded at a pan of scrambled eggs sizzling on the back burner. “What’s that?”
“Breakfast,” Savannah said. She laughed again. “This one wasn’t going to eat burnt oatmeal.” She nodded toward Chloe. The little girl sat in her high chair. She clutched a crayon in one hand and scribbled on a piece of thick sketchbook paper.
“Thank you,” Max said. He went to Chloe and kissed her forehead.
“How did you survive before I moved in?” Savannah asked, shaking her head.
Turning back toward her, Max wiped sweaty palms on his sweats. “I don’t know,” he said, “and I have no idea what I would do without you.” He took a step toward her. His eyes met hers. “I’m sorry about last night.”
She shrugged. Putting the spatula down, she shut off the pan of eggs. “It’s no big deal.” She stirred the eggs with another spatula, her eyes lowered toward the stove.
“It is, though,” Max said. He joined her at the stove. Gently, he turned her face toward his. “I was a coward.” He looked into her eyes. She gazed back at him, eyes wide. “I should have realized it sooner.”
“Realized what?” she asked. She dropped the spatula into the pan of eggs.
“How much I love you and can’t live without you.” He pulled her into his arms.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her body felt soft and warm against his. His heart pounded in his chest. He wrapped his arms around her.
“I love you,” he said again. He swallowed hard, tears brimming in his own eyes.
Savannah pressed a kiss to his cheek. “About damn time,” she said. She pulled away, a grin dancing on her lips. “I love you too, Max.”
He smiled back. “I got you something.” He turned toward the table and picked up the cookbook. “Well, technically Javier gave it to me.”
Savannah frowned at him. “Who’s Javier?”
“The guy across the street, at the store.” Max jerked a thumb in the direction of the bodega.
“Oh. That’s his name?” She shrugged.
Max handed her the binder. “This was his wife’s. It’s a bunch of recipes.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you want me to take over cooking all of our meals?” she asked, putting a hand on a hip. Her eyes sparkled, though.
“It’s not like you’re not already feeding us,” Max said. “Do you
want
me to try cooking again?”
She shook her head, holding up her hands. “No,” she said firmly. She lifted the cookbook from his hands and opened it up. Flipping through it, she skimmed through the recipes. “These are awesome,” she breathed. “My grandmother used to make a lot of these, but I couldn’t remember how to make them.” A smile crossed her face. “Thank you, Max, so much.” Standing on her tiptoes, she planted a kiss on his lips.
Then she placed the binder on the counter. “Let’s eat,” she said.
Max smiled. He looked from her to his daughter, then back to Savannah. With the two of them, his world was complete.
The End
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The Nanny with the Skull Tattoos
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Elizabeth Barone writes contemporary New Adult suspense and romance. Her stories focus on the gritty side of being a twenty-something, featuring characters who chose an alternative path in life. She is the author of over a dozen titles, including the bestselling
ESX
series.
Elizabeth lives in Connecticut with her husband, the artist Michael Campbell.
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