Chapter 2 - Dinner and Disasters
The tug-of-war ended with Julian Moretti flat on his back in the wet grass, the rope slipping from his hands as all three of his two-year-old sons pounced on his chest in a shriek of triumphant laughter. Leo grabbed his left ear, Lucas sat squarely on his ribs, and little Liam patted his expensive designer shirt with mud-caked palms.
For the first time in twelve months, Julian didn't flinch. He didn't check his watch. He didn't worry about his clothes. He just looked up past the darkening New York sky, listening to the sound of his children genuinely, uncontrollably laughing.
Emma Brooks stood a few feet away, brushing the damp grass from the hem of her blue dress, watching him with a quiet, knowing smile that made something unfamiliar twist tightly in his chest.
“Well,” Emma said, her voice rich and melodic. “Mr. Moretti, I must say, your technique lacks form, but your enthusiasm makes up for it.”
Julian sat up, brushing mud off his slacks, unable to suppress the small, self-deprecating smirk that tugged at his lips. “I’ll have you know I used to row varsity crew at Harvard. I think my technique is entirely adequate.”
“Crew doesn’t involve toddlers sitting on your windpipe,” Emma laughed, holding out a hand to help him up.
Julian stared at her hand for a fraction of a second. It was warm, firm, and calloused in a way that spoke of hard work rather than country club leisure. When she pulled him up, she didn’t drop his hand immediately; her thumb brushed his palm before she stepped back to corral the boys.
“Alright, tiny generals,” Emma clapped her hands, addressing Leo, Lucas, and Liam like a seasoned general commanding a troop of chaotic pixies. “Mud time is over. Operation Clean-Up has commenced. March!”
To Julian’s absolute astonishment, the boys didn't scream or throw tantrums. They scrambled up, grabbed each other's hands like little ducklings, and waddled toward the terrace doors, chattering excitedly about the "mud monster" they had just defeated.
Julian followed Emma inside the massive, limestone-columned foyer of the Moretti estate. The cavernous marble hallway usually echoed with an oppressive, chilling silence, broken only by the quiet footsteps of staff or the rigid ticking of antique grandfather clocks. Tonight, it echoed with the pitter-patter of muddy shoes and childish giggles.
Mrs. Higgins, the head housekeeper who ran the estate with the unyielding severity of a prison warden, appeared from the hallway with a look of absolute horror on her face.
“Mr. Moretti!” Mrs. Higgins gasped, her eyes darting from Julian’s mud-stained suit to the three boys trailing grass across the imported Italian marble. “What on earth happened? The children are tracking dirt everywhere! And you—your clothes—”
“It’s fine, Mrs. Higgins,” Julian cut her off smoothly, his voice carrying the effortless authority that made billion-dollar corporations bend to his will. “Let them be. Where is dinner?”
“Prepared in the formal dining room, sir. Roast duck with truffle reduction, served precisely at seven. The nanny can feed the boys in the nursery kitchen as usual.”
Emma stopped by the doorway, her expression shifting from playful warmth to quiet firmness.
“Actually, Mrs. Higgins,” Emma said politely, “the boys eat in the kitchen with me. And tonight, we’re having macaroni and cheese with chopped hot dogs and smuggled dinosaur chicken nuggets. Formal dining rooms are for adults who don't know how to appreciate finger food.”
Mrs. Higgins looked as though she had just been asked to consume poison. “Dinosaur nuggets? In the Moretti household? Mr. Moretti, surely you won't allow—?”
Julian looked at Emma, then down at his sons, who were currently staring up at Emma like she was a mythical superhero who controlled the stars.
“Dinosaur nuggets sound acceptable, Mrs. Higgins,” Julian said calmly. “In fact, make it two portions for me.”
Mrs. Higgins stared at him as if he had lost his mind, curtsied stiffly, and retreated down the hallway muttering under her breath.
The kitchen was a stark contrast to the rest of the mansion—spacious, stainless steel, and clinical. But tonight, it filled with the comforting smell of melting cheddar and boiling pasta. Emma moved around the counter with practiced grace, her plus-size frame exuding a powerful, grounded confidence that completely filled the room. She didn’t apologize for taking up space; she owned every inch of it.
Julian sat on one of the high chrome stools, a cup of black coffee in his hand that he wasn't drinking, simply watching her.
“You’ve only been here three days,” Julian noted quietly, leaning his elbows on the counter. “The agency sent over twenty nannies before you. Some had degrees from Oxford, some had recommendations from European royalty. They all lasted less than twenty-four hours before my sons drove them to hysterics or quit out of boredom.”
Emma poured pasta into a colander, the steam rising around her face as she smiled softly. “That’s because they treated your sons like a corporate project, Mr. Moretti. Children don't need a resume. They need someone who isn't afraid to get dirty.”
“Julian,” he corrected, before he could even stop himself.
Emma paused, turning her head to look at him, her dark eyes glittering under the kitchen lights. “Julian,” she repeated, tasting the name on her tongue.
Before either of them could say another word, Lucas—the wildest of the three triplets—climbed up onto the chair beside Julian, grabbed a dinosaur nugget from the serving plate, and unceremoniously shoved half of it into Julian’s mouth.
May you like
“Eat, Daddy!” Lucas commanded.
Emma burst out laughing—a rich, booming sound that bounced off the stainless-steel walls. Julian chewed the dinosaur nugget, staring at his son’s grinning face, and for the first time in a year, a genuine, unforced laugh escaped his own throat.
