Page 2 of The CEO Alpha’s Substitute Mate

“Are we having pasta again?” Luca calls out from the bathroom.

“Yep.”

“But we had it yesterday and the day before! Can’t we have something else?”

I try to force down the guilt and keep my voice cheery. “But you like pasta.”

“Not every day, Mom.” He trudges out of the bathroom, shaking his arms to dry the water off, and I frown at him.

“Are you a dog? Stop shaking off the water and use a towel.”

“But it’s more fun this way,” he says playfully.

“Luca.” The warning edge to my tone has him sulking and scampering off to get a towel.

“You’re so boring, Mom.”

Mom. I’ve graduated from Mommy to Mom in just a year. I let out a sigh and mumble, “Your mother would have laughed seeing you do that.”

My eyes fall on a picture framed on a wall. The woman standing next to me with her arm slung around my shoulders looks nothing like me. Her eyes are bright with laughter, mischief written all over her face. I guess that’s where Luca gets his clever side from. My lips tremble for a moment as I gaze at my sister’s face.

It’s been six years since she died in that hospital room, forcing secrets down my throat, leaving me seeking for answers I haven’t managed to find yet. But more than that, she left me with debts and her child. Luca may be mine legally, but every time I look at him, I see my sister in his eyes.

A shuddering breath escapes, and I check the sauce before dumping in the boiled pasta. Stirring, I call out, “Luca, it doesn’t take two hours to dry your hands. Come on. Dinner’s ready.”

I hear him move behind me as I pick up the pot and move it to the table. He’s already sitting there, fork in hand. I pour him a generous portion before taking some for myself. I’m mindful to leave enough for his breakfast tomorrow.

Luca’s quiet across the table, winding pasta around his fork without lifting it, and by my third mouthful, I’ve decided I know what this is about. “Tomorrow I’ll do something different,” I offer. “Sandwiches, maybe. The ones with the pickles in them.”

“I don’t want sandwiches.” He still doesn’t look up. “I want beef stew.”

Beef stew. I’m already running numbers in my head and wince internally. Beef costs nine dollars or more. That comes to most of what three dinners would run me.

“That’s expensive, buddy,” I murmur. “But I’m sure we can figure it out.”

He goes still with the fork halfway up. Then he sets it down against the rim of his bowl, and when he speaks, his voice has gone smaller and about forty years older than it was ten seconds ago.

“You really don’t have to. It’s fine. I can have pasta again.”

A sharp emotion goes through my chest hard enough that I have to put my own fork down. He’s six years old. He shouldn’t be trying to compromise over food. If it weren’t for the debts I’m still paying off, we wouldn’t be this tight financially. If my knee hadn’t given out in the second act in front of eleven hundred people two years ago, we’d still be in the place on Halloran with the balcony and the second bathroom, not this tiny cramped space.

I stare down at the pasta on my plate. God, it tastes terrible.

“Mommy?”

Luca is watching me. Smiling, I reach over and ruffle his hair until he ducks away from me.

“If my baby wants beef stew, my baby’s getting beef stew.”

“I’m not a baby,” he complains.

“You’ll always be my baby.” I lean in over the table and poke his cheek. He grins at me then, wide enough that I can see the gap where his tooth came out in April, and he goes back to his food with something close to enthusiasm. About half of it goes down, which is more than he was going to manage five minutes ago. By the time I’m running water over the plates, he’s got his chin propped on his fist, blinking slowly at the middle distance, losing an argument with his own eyelids.

I take him to bed, wondering why he’s so tired today. Usually after he has dinner, he’ll get his second wind. I tuck him in before closing the door.

Out in the front room, I open the laptop and go through the listings. Three studios across the city are advertising. All three want evenings, and evenings are the only hours I’ve got with Luca. I close the tab and stretch the bad leg out along the sofa until the knee tells me to stop. Beef is nine dollars. There’s eleven hundred in the account with a payment due on the eleventh, and if I take the beef out of the grocery money, I lose two dinners somewhere else in the week. He’s asked me for one thing since Christmas.

I run the numbers in my head twice, and it comes out the same both times, which is that I’m buying it anyway.