Page 56 of His Assistant

“I don’t want to get into it,” she says.

“Did something happen with your dad?”

She lets out a long, shuddering breath. I’ve hit the nail on the head.

“He doesn’t want to see me again,” she says. “He said as long as I’m associated with you, he wants nothing to do with me.”

I stiffen, anger surging through me.

“He what?” I say as calmly as I can manage. “You’re his daughter, how can he do that?”

She shakes her head. “I told you, Dominic, I don’t want to get into it. He’s just being a stubborn ass. He’ll change his mind once he calms down.”

I stand and look down at her. “What if he doesn’t? Sofia, I’m sorry, but that’s manipulative bullshit. I’m going to talk to him.”

“Dominic, stop!” she shouts, getting up and grabbing my arm. “You’re only going to make him angrier, and that’s the last thing I need. Please just leave it.”

“Sofia, he made you cry.”

She pulls me back down on the couch. “Lots of people have made me cry in my life, Dominic. He’s not the first one and he won’t be the last. If you go down there right now and shout at him, it’s going to prove to him that you’re exactly who he thinks you are.”

I clench my teeth. “I can’t stand for someone to hurt you,” I say quietly. “Not even your father.”

She smiles shyly and slides her hand into mine. “That’s incredibly sweet,” she says. “And part of the reason I walked away. I’m not giving in to his ultimatum. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch, but he won’t be able to stay mad once he knows there’s a little baby out there who shares his DNA. We just have to give him a little time.”

“Okay,” I say reluctantly, even though I’m ready to go down there and tear his garage apart again for making Sofia so upset. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Now that she’s calmer, we decide to go upstairs and have dinner. I tell her I’ll call my chef, Julio, to make us something to eat, but she starts rifling through the refrigerator and pulling out ingredients.

“Have you ever cooked anything in your life?” she asks, smiling at me.

“No,” I admit. “Unless you count toast.”

She laughs. “I definitely do not. I’m going to teach you how to make a stir-fry. It literally could not be easier.”

I give her a skeptical look.

“A monkey could make this, Dominic,” she says seriously. “I think you can handle it. I’ll chop the vegetables because I don’t trust you with a knife.”

“Well, now, knife skills I have,” I tell her.

“Stabbing people and finely chopping vegetables are two completely different skillsets,” she deadpans.

“Fair.” I laugh, and go over to the stove.

This is definitely not rocket science. All I have to do is turn the dials, right? Although it takes me two tries to light the correct burner. Then, when I pull out a frying pan, she sighs and tells me it’s the wrong size. I didn’t even know frying pans had sizes.

Finally, she finishes and brings over the cut-up vegetables and chicken. She adds a little oil to the pan to start cooking the chicken, then turns to the pantry for even more ingredients. She moves so gracefully, so effortlessly, that I can’t help but watch. I don’t often, if ever, pay attention to how my food gets made, so being part of the process fascinates me.

In no time, the food is cooked and she has me pull down plates so she can serve it up. She pulls out a stool at the kitchen island and sits down, gesturing for me to do the same.

“I usually eat in the dining room,” I tell her stiffly.

She smiles. “I know. It’s very weird. That table seats like twenty. Doesn’t it ever make you lonely?”

I shrug. “It never has,” I tell her honestly. “I’ve eaten in there my whole life.”

She stares at me slack-jawed. “You’ve lived here your whole life?”