I watched her for a moment, water forgotten in my hand, before smiling. “Like I said. Wise beyond your years.”
She just shrugged.
After food was plated sometime later, we sat down beside each other at the table. Even though I’d offered to eat in the living room and watch TV, something I knew she did more times than not at her place, she insisted she wanted a normal dinner because she only ate on the couch at home because she had nobody else to talk to.
There were more times than I liked to admit where my mind wandered to her when I was alone. Not in a sexual way, usually, but more with concern. I knew she lived alone and didn’t have people over often. Not even Pretty Boy. She spent a lot of time in her spare room turned studio, painting and getting lost in whatever project she had going. But there were days when I couldn’t help but wonder if she ever felt lonely, isolated, like she didn’t have a choice but to accept dinners in front of the television, probably watching some historical documentary or food competition, or if she hardly thought of it at all.
“Theo?” Snapping out of the thought, I realized I was staring at my plate in silence. “Does it not taste good? I could make you something else if you—”
“It’s fine.” To prove it, I dipped my fork into the pasta and wound it around the silver prongs before taking a hearty bite. She watched me like she was waiting for me to spit it out. Once I swallowed, I said, “I mean it, Della. It’s great.”
“You were staring at it like you found a hair or something.”
Chuckling, I looked at the full head of hair that she’d let loose as soon as she walked into the house. I preferred it down. It made me think of all the times she’d ask me or her father to brush it out for her because her arms were too short to detangle it after baths. The one summer Elizabeth had convinced her to get it cut so she’d be cooler, she ended up sobbing while clinging to my legs, and not even my promise that she looked cute, which she had, could calm her down.
It’d been in a few fantasies I tried keeping locked up as well, where a fistful was wound around my hand as I pulled her head back and kissed the fuck out of her while I thrusted inside her pussy. I didn’t allow myself to think about that often though.
“Lost in thought,” was the only information I offered her.
Her bottom lip stuck out, making me smirk, but I hid it by eating more so she couldn’t think I was lying.
“I’ve gotten better,” she admitted, picking at her own food. Her garlic bread was almost half eaten, though the small portion on her plate was barely touched. I’d wanted to tell her to eat, to put more on the plate, but I held myself back because it wouldn’t have done any good. At least she was eating something. “So, stop looking at my food like you’re going to lecture me.”
“I wasn’t,” I assured half-heartedly.
“Mmhmm.”
I grinned. “I was just thinking about how well your cooking skills have gotten.”
“I’d hope so,” she mused, twirling her fork around some pasta before stabbing a piece of chicken with it. “I’ve come a long way over the years considering my only other options were finding new Pop-Tarts and Healthy Choice meals to try.”
She had people to cook for her, but she never used them. When her mother was alive, she’d cook all the time for the family, but then she became busy with the charities she helped with and the events she’d gone to constantly with Anthony. They did everything for their family, for Adele, but their daughter was on her own more than I liked. It was why I’d stepped in so much, brought Della with me various places, that way she wasn’t always alone with the hired help.
Being the stubborn child that she was, she always insisted on eating premade meals, things she could make easily without anybody else’s help. When Elizabeth passed, her father tried to take up cooking and meal prep, so Della had something to eat that wasn’t loaded with sugar, especially considering Adele had become hyperaware of what she was eating, no thanks to the expectations that came with being a dancer and the way the tabloids came at her when she put on weight from the lack of proper nutrition. It hadn’t mattered that she burnt twice as many calories from her routines, she struggled with her body image because of everything in her life. I’d read that it was common for adolescents to have those challenges, but Della was a special case. She spiraled with the stress of her loss, in how swiftly everything changed for her because of her parents.
“I still have a long way to go considering I nearly burnt down my father’s house trying to prepare Christmas dinner that one year. I’m still afraid to do anything with turkey.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “If it makes you feel better, I can help you this year. Can’t just give up because of one incident.”
My mind went to my conversation with Sophie about her dancing, but the words didn’t feel the same. “You’re right, but do you really want to risk your kitchen getting burnt to a crisp?”
I shrugged. “I have the money to fix it.”
“Very encouraging.”
“I do my best.”
Her phone chirped from somewhere in the kitchen, causing her to look behind her. I frowned when she got up and dug through the purse that she’d draped on the island
