Chapter 8
BELLE
There is nothing dignified about trying to balance on one leg in a public shower while the other throbs like it’s filing a formal complaint.
I braced my palm against the tile wall and let the water run hot over my shoulders.
The gym was already busy for a Sunday morning.
A locker slammed as someone blasted a podcast about productivity.
The fluorescent lights did me no favors.
My knee had stiffened overnight. Not catastrophic, just swollen and deeply offended. I could walk . . . . technically. It just looked like I was reconsidering every step halfway through it.
In the mirror, I studied myself.
“You are thriving,” I told my reflection. She looked unconvinced.
Bread Zeppelin smelled like sugar and stability. I ordered coffee and limped to my usual corner seat. The chair scraped louder than I meant it to when I pulled it out. I hated that my body was broadcasting weakness. I wrapped both hands around the cup and stared at my phone.
My knee pulsed steadily under the table.
The door chimed as someone else came in. I didn’t even look up.
My phone buzzed on the table with an unknown number.
I answered before I could talk myself out of it.
“Hello.”
“Ms. Blythe.”
His voice was unmistakable. Even, controlled, faintly impatient.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Where are you?” his deep voice rumbled through the phone.
I blinked. “At a bakery.”
A pause.
“I require additional assistance.”
“With the basement? I was told to come in on Monday, but I can come in today if needed.” While I was unsure if I would walk around his basement, the money was needed.
“No.” Another pause. “Can you cook?”
I stared at the wall for a second. “Yes, I can cook.”
“I need you to prepare evening meals. I have been using a meal service, but their quality has declined.”
I shifted carefully in my seat. “That’s . . . not technically in my job description.”
“I would compensate you.”
Of course, he would.
“How so?” I asked.
He named a number. My grip tightened slightly on the coffee cup.
“That’s generous.”
“It reflects the expectation.”
The way this guy talked both irritated and amused me. It was as if his words cost him money, and he was stingy.
“Is this a long-term arrangement?” I asked.
“For the week, and then we will revisit it.”
My brain moved fast. Five days at that rate. Basement hours, the routine cleaning, along with the shifts at the coffee counter in the book shop, a few nights a week.
“Okay,” I said. “I can do that.”
“You will come this afternoon.” Not a question.
“I’ll be there.”
The line disconnected. I stared at my phone for a moment. Cooking for Raphael Renault in that house for money that mattered more than I wanted to admit. I finished my coffee and stood carefully.
Later that day, I made my way to the estate. The gates opened automatically. I pulled into the same spot and shut off the engine. I stepped out of the van and closed the door firmly. One push. Two. It was a habit.
The knee protested as I made my way towards the service entrance. I ignored it. The stone path felt longer than it had before. I knocked.
Geoffrey opened the door.
“Ms. Blythe,” he said with a polite smile.
“Geoffrey.”
His gaze dropped briefly to my leg, then returned to my face.
“Mr. Renault is expecting you.”
I stepped inside. The air, blessedly, was cooler here.
I took stock of the kitchen while I waited for the Beast. That name suited him, but not in the way I thought it would.
Yes, he was big and had watching eyes, and I had yet to see a smile underneath that full beard, but it was something else.
More than anything, it was the energy of a massive animal that you know could kill you if it wanted to, yet somehow I just wanted to snuggle with it.
Whoa, where on earth did that thought come from? Raphael Renault was definitely not the snuggling type.
No, no snuggling. You are here to make him food. And judging by the state of those sad microwave meals I’d seen him heating up, he needed it.
The kitchen at the Renault estate was beautiful. It wasn’t warm or even lived in. Beautiful in a way that felt curated, like nothing in here had ever been used.
I set my bag on the counter and took stock of what Geoffrey had laid out.
“Mr. Renault prefers simple,” he said.
“I can do simple,” I asked.
“Basic and well-balanced. Nothing too crazy.”
“Ah,” I nodded. “So not chaotic lasagna.”
He did not smile, but something in his expression softened. “Something like that. I’m sure he will be down to speak with you soon. You do seem to keep showing up, don’t you?”
I nodded before I tied my hair back tighter and got to work. Cooking was easier than thinking. I’d been cooking for myself and my dad since I was ten years old. So I easily found my rhythm, even if my knee throbbed in the background, a low warning hum I chose to ignore.
Soon, I became aware of it. Not the pain, but of him. Raphael Renault did not make noise when he entered a room, but something in the air shifted. He was in the doorway.
“You’re hovering,” I said without turning around.
“I am observing.” The deep, rich timbre of his voice soothed me. Why did it soothe?
“That’s hovering with better branding.”
Silence. I plated the food deliberately.
“How about this?” I said, wiping my hands. “On days I’m here, I cook dinner. On days I’m not, I prep and label. You heat.”
“Yes. That is suitable.”
“Five evenings this week.”
“Yes.”
“And the basement on my days I’m not scheduled to clean.”
“Yes.”
I glanced at him. It was becoming a goal of mine to get him to string together more than five words. He was a smart man. Surely he could do it.
“My off days are becoming fictional,” I joked as I leaned my hip against the counter, taking some pressure off my stable leg.
“You agreed to the hours.”
“Correct.”
The money was good. More than good. Between basement hours and this new arrangement, I was almost caught up on Dad’s bill. Which meant I could breathe. Walking was still rough, but I could breathe at least.
“What do you prefer?” I asked instead. “Food-wise. I made a simple stir fry for this evening.”
“That is good. Nothing complicated.”
“That is not helpful.”
He merely cocked his head and stepped further into the kitchen. My heart skipped a beat as he walked into my space.
“You will eat with me.”
I froze for half a second. Surely I misheard him.
“I’m sorry. Did you say you want me to eat with you?”
“Yes.”
My hackles lifted instantly. Why? Was this a surveillance tactic? A control mechanism? Did he think I’d steal the silverware if unsupervised?
I set the knife down carefully.
“Is that part of the job description?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then why?”
He glowered at me. “I prefer conversation.”
That was . . . not the answer I expected. Conversation from the man who had barely strung together a full sentence in my presence.
I narrowed my eyes slightly.
“Do you know something I don’t?”
“No.”
His jaw tightened. Part of me was nervous that he had figured out just how desperate I am. The thought of being a charity case made me want to crawl out of my skin. I examined him for a moment, taking him in. He could not know that I am trying to pay for my dad.
“Then why eat together?”
A beat.
“Because I would like you to eat with me.”
Which was very him, he was direct and unapologetic.
I considered the math. Eating with him did not reduce my pay.
It did, however, give me free food . . .
at least I assumed he wouldn’t be charging me.
Part of me wanted to ask, but the other part thought that might get him asking too many questions.
“Fine,” I said finally. “But if you critique my knife skills, I’m leaving.”
“I will not.”
I plated lunch and carried one dish toward the study.
The knee protested with every step. Just steady pain that radiated when I bent too far. I forced my gait into something resembling normal.
When I entered the dining room, he looked up immediately.
“You’re limping,” he said.
“Observant.”
He stood as I set the plate down.
“Where is yours?”
“In the kitchen, I’ll go get it.”
“No.” I blinked at him. “You’re clearly in pain of some sort. I’ll go get it.”
I stared at him for a long moment. Now that had to have been more than five words. He merely nodded and disappeared into the kitchen to get the second plate.
He returned, and we both sat down to eat. It was nice to eat something freshly cooked. #Vanlife had meant I’d been subsisting on peanut butter and jelly and ramen for the past few months.
“This is good.”
Ahh, yes, back to the almost monosyllabic beast.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s been a while since I’ve cooked. Can you tell me some of your favorite foods so I can be sure to make them?”
He didn’t answer. He only evaluated.
“Why are you in pain?” he finally said.
I shot him a look across the table. “I’m not.”
His jaw flexed. “You are. Are you injured?”
“I’m good,” I said as I took another bite, praying he would let this go. I could not have him thinking I was too injured to work.
He remained staring like this was a strategic summit.
“Please, tell me why you are limping,” he said as if asking for something nicely hurt him. But he sounded sincere instead of demanding. And was that concern I saw in his slightly softened eyes? What was happening?
“My knee hurts, but I just tweaked it. I will be right as rain soon.”
We ate in strange, almost polite silence for several minutes. The food was good. He ate like everything else he did, with measured efficiency.
I shifted in my chair, adjusting my leg under the table. The movement cost me. He noticed. Of course, he did. This observant man seemed to notice everything.
“You need medical attention,” he said.
I didn’t look up.
“I need salt,” I replied, reaching for it.
“You’re in pain.”
“It will heal.”
“You could’ve torn something.”
“It’s just a little sprain.” I smiled with the delivery, hoping he would drop this, but no luck
His fork lowered slowly.
“Go to a doctor.” This time, it sounded like a command.
I bristled immediately. “With what?” I asked. “Optimism?”
“You are injured.”
“I know.”
“Then address it.” He said it like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Like seeking medical treatment for my injured knee just hadn’t occurred to me.
I could feel the anger in me rising, but I took a deep breath.
I could not afford to get fired, especially after getting unrequested from the Tremaine’s for encouraging Eleanor to join the Grimm Reapers.
Tripp would straight up fire me if another client terminated me.
I set my fork down, collecting my thoughts.
“I will.”
“When?”
“When I decide to.”
He leaned back slightly. “You’re being irrational.”
At that, I could no longer control my temper. He was going too far.
“And you’re being intrusive!”
His dark eyes continued to burn holes in me from across the table. “You cannot continue to work like that.”
“I can, and I am.”
“Not without treatment.”
I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You are aware that medical care costs money, correct?” I spat back at him.
His brow scrunched. “You’re working additional hours, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“For income.”
“Yes.”
“Then use it.”
“It’s for my father,” I snapped. The room went still. Silence stretched tight. Once again, he looked at me with that expression, like I was a puzzle.
“I don’t have insurance,” I said flatly.
He held my gaze. A look flashed behind his eyes. I'm sure I was reading it wrong. He seemed angry and concerned at the same time, but that didn’t make any sense. Why would this matter to him?
“You play injury on wheels without insurance,” he said like an accusation.
The words landed like a slap. Well, that wasn’t pity. Fury flared so fast it surprised even me.
“Oh, we’re doing that.” I straightened in my chair, wishing I could stand without further proving his point.
“I‘m stating a fact,” he said, crossing his hands over his wide chest. Why was I noticing the way the fabric of his dress shirt pulled over his biceps?
“No,” I said, leaning forward. “You’re judging me.”
He took a breath before continuing, “No, Belle, I’m concerned.”
He said my name. Why did his saying my name squeeze my heart? I was a mess.
“You’re condescending, you know that?” I shot back, tossing my napkin on the table.
“I’m being logical,” he said with a careful nod.
“From your ivory tower.”
His expression cooled. “This is not about class.”
“It is absolutely about class,” I shot back. “You get injured, you call a specialist. I get injured, I calculate how many extra hours I can stand before something collapses.”
“You should not be calculating whether you deserve treatment.”
“I’m not calculating whether I deserve it,” I snapped. “I’m calculating whether I can afford it.”
The air between us sharpened.
“You require insurance,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you do not have it.”
“No.”
“Then obtain it.”
I stared at him.
“With what job that offers benefits?” I asked. “You think Merry Band of Maids is handing out dental?”
He didn’t answer.
“There is no magical solution.” I pushed back from the table slightly. “Unless you are planning to marry me and put me on your plan, there is no other option.”
The words were meant to sting. He did not react the way I expected. He didn’t scoff. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t recoil. He went very still. His eyes locked on mine.
“You’re right,” was all he said.
“What?”
“Marry me,” he said.
The air left my lungs. This conversation had my head in circles.
“I was joking,” I said immediately.
“I am not.”
Silence swallowed the kitchen whole. I searched his face for a crack. A tell. A smirk. Something to show that he was joking. Because he had to be joking . . . right?
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
The words landed heavier than the table between us. What was even happening? He could not be serious. I needed air. I stood and made my way back to the kitchen. I couldn’t look at his stupid, handsome face and think straight when he said that.