Chapter 101 *
Scarlett’s POV
I attacked the hot pot like I'd been starving for weeks.
Which wasn't far from the truth. I hadn't had proper mala in forever.
The numbing spice hit my tongue and I made a sound that was borderline inappropriate. I didn't care. This was heaven.
I dumped another handful of beef into the spicy side. Watched it cook for exactly thirty seconds. Fished it out. Shoved it in my mouth.
Perfect.
Damon was watching me. He hadn't touched his chopsticks in like five minutes.
"Are you going to eat?" I asked around a mouthful of mushrooms.
"I'm eating." He gestured vaguely at his bowl.
I looked at his bowl. One piece of meat. Barely touched.
"That's not eating. That's staring at food."
He picked up the meat. Put it in his mouth. Chewed slowly.
His face stayed completely neutral.
Which meant the spice was probably killing him.
I grinned. "Too hot?"
"It's fine."
"You're crying."
"I'm not crying." He was definitely tearing up.
I laughed. Dropped more vegetables into the pot.
Then I noticed something.
Every time I put something in to cook, Damon would watch the timer. When I forgot about it, he'd fish it out for me. Put it in my bowl.
When I overcooked something, he'd eat it himself.
"You don't have to do that," I said.
"Do what?"
"Take the overcooked stuff. I can just throw it away."
He looked at me like I'd suggested murder.
"That's wasteful."
"It's ruined."
"It's fine." He picked up a piece of beef I'd left in too long. Ate it without flinching.
I stared at him.
This man. This insane man.
He was playing support role in hot pot. Like this was a team sport.
"You're weird," I said.
"You're wasteful."
"I'm enjoying myself."
"So am I."
I looked at his barely-touched bowl. His watering eyes. The way he kept drinking water every thirty seconds.
"You're lying."
He smiled. Actually smiled.
"Maybe a little."
Twenty minutes later, I was so full I could barely move.
I leaned back in my chair. Put my hands on my stomach.
"I'm dying."
"You ate enough for three people."
"Worth it." I closed my eyes. "Totally worth it."
When I opened them again, Damon was looking around the apartment.
His expression was... curious. Like he was trying to figure something out.
"This place is yours?" he asked.
"Yeah."
His eyes moved to the window. The view of Manhattan. Back to the kitchen.
"The Romanos bought this for you?"
The question came out shocked. Almost disbelieving.
I sat up straighter. "Why do you sound so surprised?"
"Because this is worth at least one and a half million dollars."
Oh. Right.
He'd definitely looked into the property value.
I could see his brain working.
My adoptive parents were country doctors. No way they left me this kind of money.
I was twenty-two. Couldn't have earned it myself.
So where the hell did it come from?
"It's from my adoptive parents," I said. "Their estate. Plus wrongful death settlement. Plus insurance."
His expression shifted. "Wrongful death?"
"Car accident." I looked down at my hands. "The settlement was... substantial."
He didn't say anything. Just waited.
"The first day I walked into the Romano house," I continued quietly, "I knew I might never really have a home again."
I gestured around the apartment.
"So I bought this. As a backup plan. The only place that's actually mine."
The silence that followed was heavy.
When I looked up, Damon was watching me.
His expression was complicated. Sad, maybe. Or understanding.
He didn't push for more details. Didn't ask questions.
Just nodded once. "Smart."
I smiled. Small but genuine. "Thanks."
I stood up. Started collecting plates and bowls.
"I'll clean up," I said.
Damon stood too. "I'll help."
I almost laughed. "You don't have to do that."
"I want to."
I carried the dishes to the kitchen sink. Started running the water.
Behind me, I heard footsteps. Damon had followed me in.
He was standing in the doorway. Hands in his pockets. Looking... uncomfortable.
Like he wanted to help but had no idea how.
I turned around. "You okay?"
"I should be helping." His voice was firm. Decisive.
But he was still standing in the doorway.
I couldn't help it. I grinned. "Do you... know how to wash dishes?"
Silence.
Three full seconds of silence.
Then Damon said, very seriously, "How hard can it be?"
Oh my God.
He really didn't know.
"Come here," I said. Tried not to laugh.
He walked over. Started taking off his suit jacket.
I watched him hang it carefully on a chair. Then he unbuttoned his cuffs. Rolled up his sleeves.
My heart did something stupid.
He pushed the sleeves up to his forearms. His white shirt had the top two buttons undone.
I forgot how to breathe for a second.
This man made rolling up sleeves look like some kind of ritual.
"What do I do?" he asked.
I blinked. Forced my brain to restart.
"Uh. Right. Okay." I moved over slightly. Made room at the sink. "Take this."
I handed him the dish soap.
He took it. Squeezed out... Jesus Christ. That was way too much.
"Uh, that's way too much—"
Too late.
He'd already dumped it on the sponge. Started scrubbing a bowl.
Bubbles exploded everywhere. All over his hands. The counter. His shirt.
He didn't even notice. Just kept scrubbing with intense focus.
"You're going to take the pattern off," I said.
"I'm being thorough."
"You're being excessive."
He ignored me. Rinsed the bowl under the water.
For three minutes.
I timed it.
"Damon. It's clean."
"I want to make sure."
"There's no bacteria left. I promise."
He finally set it in the drying rack. Looked at it with satisfaction.
Like he'd just completed a military operation.
I bit my lip. Tried not to laugh.
He picked up the next dish. Started the whole process over again.
His movements were slow. Careful. Almost comically serious.
But there was something about the way he focused. The way he didn't complain or make jokes.
He was genuinely trying.
"You've really never done this before?" I asked.
He paused. Looked at the plate in his hands.
"I grew up with staff." His voice was matter-of-fact. "Chefs, housekeepers, drivers."
He set the plate down. "Never had to do any of this."
Then he turned to look at me. His eyes were direct. Intense.
"But I'm not letting you do it alone."
My heart stopped.
Just completely stopped beating.
This man. This insane, powerful, terrifying man.
Was learning to wash dishes because he didn't want me to clean up by myself.
I felt my face get hot. "You're doing fine."
My voice came out smaller than I intended.
I looked down at the dish in my hands. Scrubbed it with unnecessary focus.
The kitchen was small. We were standing close.
Every time he moved, his arm brushed against mine.
I could smell his cologne. Something expensive and subtle. Mixed with the clean scent of his shirt.
My pulse was doing weird things.
"My mother used to say..." Damon's voice was low. Almost thoughtful.
I glanced up.
He was looking at the soapy water. Like he was remembering something.
"She said you can tell a lot about a man by how he treats the woman he cares about when no one's watching."
My hands froze.
The woman he cares about.
Those words echoed in my head. Loud and clear.
"When it's just the two of them," he continued. "Doing ordinary things."
He turned his head. Looked directly at me.
"That's when you see who he really is."
I couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
My face was burning.
The plate in my hands slipped. I caught it at the last second.
"I—I'll go grab something from the other room!" The words tumbled out too fast.
I set the plate down. Practically ran out of the kitchen.
Left Damon standing there alone.
My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might break through my ribs.