“I love it,” Jareth answered without hesitation.
Niamh was taken aback. What a coincidence, the man who hired me as a part-time housekeeper also loves tortellini.
As they were eating, Niamh couldn’t help but boast, “Mr. Bragg, I’m not just bragging, but my homemade tortellini is the best in the world. Much better than this.”
“Oh?” Jareth looked at her with amusement, his mind drifting to the bowl of tortellini from the previous night. Truthfully, that had been the best he had ever tasted.
And this silly girl had the audacity to claim hers was the best in the world? He’d have to arrange a cook-off between her and his housekeeper someday to see who was the true champion.
Noticing his skeptical expression, Niamh pressed on. “Mr. Bragg, you probably think I’m exaggerating, don’t you? But I’m really not.”
Jareth’s face soured. Give this girl an inch, and she’d take a mile.
“My Keir says my beef and potato curry is the best in the world,” she continued proudly. “And my savory porridge is the best in the world. And my sandwiches are the best in the world. And my ravioli is the best in the world.”
Jareth shook his head. So, the title of “best in the world” was awarded by that little brat Keir.
He remembered how he used to think his own mother’s cooking was the most delicious food on earth. But his mother was gone now.
Just like that, his mood plummeted. He slammed his fork down on the table and snapped, “Niamh, can’t you just eat without running your mouth? If you say one more word, you can get out and eat somewhere else.”
Niamh pouted but fell silent. A few bites later, she glanced up and saw a small piece of pasta stuck to the corner of Jareth’s mouth. A giggle escaped her before she could stop it.


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