“Let’s say something happened to you, and you fell,” he says. The oven beeps, and he grabs his gloves and moves me aside as he drains the pasta. “Then you’re lying in the middle of the street naked.”

“With a dead fish,” I point out. “So you see how this is all your fault. It’s the six degrees of Markos buying me a fish.”

He laughs now, a full-on belly laugh. His eyes crinkle on the sides. “Go sit down. I’ll bring the food out.” Shaking my head, I walk to the table and wait for him. He comes over with a round big bowl and I swear it’s the best thing I have ever smelled. He scoops some pasta and places it on my plate and then does the same for him. Putting the bowl with the remaining pasta in the middle of the table.

“Bon appétit,” he says in French, and I smile at him.

“Bon appétit,” I tell him and grab my own fork. The minute the pasta hits my tongue, I moan. “How did you make this?”

“It’s my mother,” he says while he takes his own bite. “She makes the sauce homemade.”

“Like boils them and peels them and all that?” I ask him.

“Yes.” He nods. “They do it every year.”

“That is so cool and amazing,” I tell him, and he nods, telling me about all the times he had to pick tomatoes. I laugh at his stories while I finish my whole plate, and when I get up, I push him down. “You cook, I clean,” I tell him. “It’s the least I can do.” I put the plates in the dishwasher, and when I finally finish the pots, I look over and see him yawning. “Did you go back to bed when I left?”

“No.” He rubs his face. “Tracy got here as soon as you left.”

“Who’s Tracy?” I ask but don’t look at him, my heart hammering in my chest. It never even occurred to me that he could be dating other women, and I am just a number.

“She’s my assistant, and she takes care of the business part of things for me,” he says, getting up. “I’m going to go get my keys.”

“You don’t have to drive me home. I can take a cab,” I tell him, but he just walks away from me and comes back. “Well, then, let me get my shoes on,” I tell him, walking to the door and seeing the fishbowl.

“Where are you going to put it?” I slip on my shoes asking him, and he shrugs. I grab my jacket and the fish food in the pocket makes it heavy. “Not so easy.” Reaching into my pocket, I take out the food. “You’ll need this.” I hand him the small fish food, and he grabs it and puts it beside the bowl.