The Billionaire's Match Is Three Percent novel · Chapter 6 of 24

Chapter 6: The Spotless Kitchen

On Friday he took me to his apartment, and I opened his refrigerator.

There was a bottle of water, a carton of oat milk, and a lemon.

That was it.

"Where is the food?" I said.

"I eat at the office."

"Every meal?"

"Phyllis orders it."

"Winston."

"Yes?"

"Put your shoes on."

We went to the Giant Eagle on Penn Avenue, ten minutes before it closed.

He pushed the cart.

Nobody looked at him.

A man with a billion-dollar company and a three-hundred-dollar haircut was just another man in the cereal aisle.

I bought spaghetti, a jar of red sauce, garlic, a wedge of parmesan, and a bag of lemons.

His apartment was on the thirty-eighth floor of a glass tower on Fort Pitt Boulevard.

It had a black granite island the size of a boat, white walls, and no art.

Everything was square and clean and silent.

You could hear the city through the glass, very far down.

I set the bags on the island and the island looked offended.

"Take off your tie," I said.

"I'm not wearing a tie."

"Then take off your jacket and roll your sleeves."

He did it, slowly, and I watched the long forearms come out.

I found a pot in a cabinet.

I found out that it had never been used, because the price sticker was still on the bottom.

I filled it with water and put it on the burner and turned the heat up too high.

Then I dumped half a box of spaghetti into it and the other half onto the floor.

"Daria."

"I've got it."

"Daria, the water is-"

"It's fine."

It boiled over.

It hissed on the hot burner and ran down the side in white foam.

I grabbed the sauce jar, banged on the lid, couldn't open it, and handed it to him.

He opened it with one twist.

"I should have bought pre-made," I said.

"You are making a mess of my kitchen on purpose."

"I'm making a mess of your kitchen on purpose."

He stared at the sauce on the granite, the pasta on the floor, the red handprint on the white cabinet where I'd steadied myself.

Then he reached over and put one finger in the red sauce on the counter and tasted it.

"It's good," he said.

"It's from a jar."

"It's the best thing I've eaten in a year."

He pulled me against him.

We kissed over the stove with the water still boiling.

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