Chapter 3 Lucy
LUCY
I’d never felt so violated in all my life.
Dad had invited a stranger into my house—for a full month—and taken away my studio in one fell swoop.
All because I wasn’t finishing the painting as quickly as he expected.
It was foreign. I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking when I was at the easel; the pastel colors and the soft brushstrokes were something I hadn’t felt in years.
It wasn’t me, not anymore. I was being told to paint someone else’s work, and all I could feel was this insurmountable weight of expectation on my shoulders.
I was trapped. At my easel and in my own home.
Mr. Bristol—Knox, he’d corrected—was in my home. He was watching me, his brows furrowed as he did.
Did that mean he saw something wrong with me? Was he spying on me for Dad? Watching my progress with the painting? Verifying that I wasn’t being grumpy about emptying my studio to make room for the new bed my dad had delivered for him?
Dad and Cordelia hadn’t even given me a warning.
They knew all of this last night after the auction—had planned it, really—and they’d scheduled a bed to be delivered here after Knox arrived.
But they didn’t say one word to me until I answered the door and found Knox there.
I couldn’t argue. I couldn’t throw some sort of tantrum like I was a child again, because Knox was there, in front of us.
I was representing my family, the Sterling name.
Had that been on purpose?
I watched the movers set up the bed once they’d deposited the rest of my art supplies and Jackson’s studio cat tree on the floor in the hallway, uncaring but not breaking anything—for fear of my dad’s wrath, no doubt.
They set it up swiftly and smoothly, and I could only haul the rest of my art supplies to the corner in my living room.
With Knox’s help.
He’d moved from behind the kitchen island when the movers first knocked on the door. The furrow to his brow wasn’t gone, but it had eased somewhat, softening his face when he looked at me.
He was tall. Unreasonably so. I was used to being shorter than a fair number of the men Dad brought around, but there was something different in how Knox looked at me, and in how my body felt under his attention, like a fire wasn’t hot enough to describe.
When some of the other men looked at me, it was with a hunger that twisted my stomach, unsettling me and making nausea erupt that wouldn’t go away until after I’d had my shower.
When Knox looked at me, there was something else behind his eyes and in how he held himself.
There was a softness I didn’t know what to do with, especially after he’d interacted with Dad and Cordelia with just as much iciness.
But the way he’d looked at me when he took the crate—it was like music, thrumming along the surface of my skin, vibrating under my feet and somehow, impossibly, pulling me into his space.
I wanted to trust him, but I wasn’t that naive. I knew how the world worked by now, at least the rich parts with people who never said what they meant. Knox’s words were just words. They shouldn’t mean anything to me. They shouldn’t make me wonder if he could actually show concern for me.
I didn’t know what made me want to trust him. I couldn’t make sense of what I couldn’t see, only what I could observe.
For one, he clearly had never had posture lessons drilled into him as I had. Where he stood with confidence and strength, he was also loose. The furrow of his brow was questioning, but more curious than interrogative.
Was he my dad’s spy? What did he know? Or was he actually just here for the chef position? Then he’d move on to his next gig next month, maybe cooking for some celebrity.
“Here, let me.”
I startled when Knox took the last box from me, my palette knives and mixing medium tucked away under a couple of my drop cloths.
His fingers brushed against mine, and I jerked away at the warmth.
I met his eyes, and that furrow was back, with one eyebrow raising higher than the other.
“You alright?” His voice was low, cautious, deep in a way that I could feel it in my ribcage.
He was being gentle with me, and I hated it.
Well, most of me hated it.
“Yeah,” I exhaled, the shakiness of it giving away my lie, “I’m fine. Sorry. And thank you. You don’t have to help me with this.”
I cleared my throat and straightened my own posture. Represent the family properly, Lucy. “That’s not in your job description.”
Just as open as I thought he’d been, his eyes hardened, his posture stiffened, and he shut down faster than I could blink.
“Right.” Any softness in his voice had disappeared, replaced by a barely concealed anger. “I’ll be in the kitchen then.”
He turned and strode away from me, carrying the last of my art supplies. The things that were most precious to me.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, certain I was going to hear the slam of that box on the ground in his anger. He didn’t have the same concern for my things as I did, of course, and I’d clearly offended him.
But no harsh sound ever came. Only soft clattering came from beyond the hallway a moment later, Knox opening cupboards and moving dishes.
I just listened to it for a moment, him moving around my kitchen. I hardly used it, so he would be disappointed. He’d have to be given the family credit card for anything he wanted to stock the kitchen with, because I doubted that he would approve of my own meager groceries.
“Mr. Sterling?”
I turned, and the movers stood before me, looking disapproving, too.
“Yes?”
“We’re finished,” one of them said in a tone that clearly stated he’d said that already and I hadn’t heard him.
“Oh, of course. Here, let me walk you out.”
They wanted money, of course. They’d been paid, or they wouldn’t have made their delivery, but tipping was customary. Did a family even have money if they didn’t show it by tossing it in their wake?
I walked them to the door and slipped them three twenties from my wallet.
An eye roll. Not enough.
I gave them another two, and they left as quickly as they’d come. Silent, too.
I closed the door with a soft click behind them and rested my forehead against it, my hands shaking and my heart racing.
When I’d finally peeled myself away from the door, I saw Knox bustling through my kitchen.
He was dressed casually, in a tight ?-length shirt and jeans, something I wasn’t used to with the chefs who had worked for my family before, but I liked it.
There was something comforting about not seeing a line of employees in my home, but just another person.
It wasn’t just me living in silence—not for the month, at least—because there was another person who would be making noise, too.
Then I glanced at my new art corner.
It was neat, even if it was in stacks taking over the corner by the double doors that led to my balcony.
Knox clearly had cared enough to settle things together and not stack things with delicate paintbrushes or loose canvas fabric.
Even Jackson’s cat tree was settled neatly in the corner, any loose toys tucked in the tiny hammock draping between platforms. I hadn’t even heard Knox move it.
He cared, even if just a little bit, for a stranger.
“What are you doing?” I found myself asking as I moved to the stools on the other side of the island.
I was useless in the kitchen, and I didn’t want to invade what was now his space. But I felt drawn in. I wanted to see what he was doing, wanted to know what he thought of my kitchen. What he thought of me.
Maybe I was a glutton for punishment.
“Hm?” Knox turned from where he was at the stove, spatula in hand.
He studied me, perched and fidgeting on the stool, and tilted his head.
“I’m cooking.”
I pouted. “But why?”
Knox’s eyes shuttered again, putting up that silent wall between us.
“It’s my job, isn’t it?”
I flinched at the steel there.
So that was what had upset him?
“I’m sorry,” I picked at the edge of my nails, “I was trying to–I mean, I thought you’d prefer if I–” I winced, knowing I sounded like a stuttering idiot.
I cleared my throat and straightened my shoulders, forcing my hands to still. Be clear and concise. Represent the family. “I didn’t mean to offend you. You were helping me when you didn’t have to, and I appreciate that, but I worded it wrong.”
Silence.
I glanced up to find him looking at me with that expression again, the one where it looked like he didn’t know what to say to me, like I was the source of his confusion.
I couldn’t be surprised. I’d probably been a bag full of confusion and mixed signals from the moment he knocked on my door. My mind was in tatters, and I couldn’t even pull myself together enough to handle movers or properly thank Knox for helping me carry my art supplies from room to room.
A soft thump was all that announced Jackson’s intrusion. The chair beside mine spun, and I knew he was curling up on the cushion.
Knox still hadn’t said anything.
I couldn’t hold his gaze anymore. Instead, I glanced back at my hands, still forcibly frozen on the countertop so I wouldn’t fidget or pick at my fingers again.
If he didn’t want to talk to me, that was fine. He was here for a job, so it wasn’t his job to entertain me. He worked for my dad. I was just here.
A plate was placed in front of me with a soft clatter.
A crisp and gooey grilled cheese.
I blinked, and a mug of what must be tomato soup joined the plate.
A mug? I had bowls in the cupboard, didn’t I? You weren’t supposed to serve soup to guests in anything else.
My gaze flicked up, where he still stood in front of me—well, where he leaned against the island. He was still looking at me, still curious.
And still handsome.
“Grilled cheese and tomato soup,” he informed me as if I didn’t know. “Maybe not up to your standards, but–”
“No,” I interrupted, shaking my head emphatically. “I like grilled cheese.”
It was one of my favorites, but he didn’t need to know that.
Knox nodded. “Let’s start over.”
I frowned, hands pausing on the way to pick up the first piece of grilled cheese. “What?”
Knox snorted, the first hint at what his laugh sounded like.
My gaze flicked back to him, though it had never strayed far away, if I was honest. I saw a flash of what could be a smile, too, though this one was more of a smirk.
“Look,” his voice was blunt, and he gestured to me loosely, “your dad clearly caught you off guard with me. You didn’t expect someone in your space, and here I am for the month.
Yeah, I am staying because this is my job, but I don’t want to invade your space.
I don’t want to freak you out—more than you already are, that is.
I want to cook for a month and get paid.
I won’t snoop through your stuff or tattle on you if you have people over.
I don’t know what’s up with this painting thing, but it’s not my business, so who the fuck cares? The rest is between you and your dad.”
I stared at him. I knew my jaw was dropped, my mouth agape, but I couldn’t help it. It’s like he was pulling the words out of my brain.
“So, is it a deal?” Knox held his hand out between us. “We can be a reluctant team.”
I knew I was probably wearing all my emotions on my face, but I was too ecstatic to care. So he wasn’t a spy, and he was at least respectful of my space, even if he would be sleeping in what should be my studio.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Knox.” I grinned and shook his hand.