13. Penelope
Chapter 13
Penelope
The next morning, I wake up early.
There’s a split second where I have no idea where I am, and my eyes snap open, heart racing. The bed is soft and warm, piled high with blankets and pillows that feel like clouds against my skin. There’s no sound of groaning pipes or construction work outside the window. No neighbors shouting in the halls or people banging down the stairs and fire escapes.
Light floods the room from the four windows, and it hits me that I’m home.
Not home, home, in my shitty little apartment that’s barely holding itself together with hopes and dreams and overpriced rent, but the home I’m going to be sharing with the guys—my husbands—for the next year.
My mind races right along with my heart as I turn over the events of the day before.
I got married.
I pull my left hand out from under the covers, where the three rings from the men are nestled on my finger, stacked together into one beautiful unit. The diamond sparkles in the sunlight, and my chest tightens just looking at it.
If it wasn’t for the ring and the fact that I woke up here instead of in my twin bed at my apartment, I would think the day before was a dream. Because in what world does someone like me marry men like that? Handsome, capable, successful men who could have anything and anyone they wanted.
But there’s so much proof that it really happened, including the fact that if I close my eyes, I can almost feel Xavier’s lips on mine in his room last night.
I only wanted to thank him when I showed up there, but I didn’t anticipate him being shirtless or the way my body would react to the sight of him. Maybe it’s the Alpha in him, but he looked good. My hands wanted to touch all that warm skin, to see if he was as solid as he looked.
And then he touched me, tipped my chin up and kissed me, and everything in me wanted more.
“Get it together,” I mumble to myself, kicking my way free of the covers. “You’re not here for that. This is just business.”
I have to keep reminding myself of that or I’m never going to last the year in a house this big with these men who seem to take up all the space around them.
I get up and take my time washing my face and getting dressed. It’s a work day, so I opt for something classy and then do my hair and makeup.
Usually, I would cover the birthmark on my cheek with concealer and foundation, but I remember what Dominic said to me when he touched me in his office, and I leave it alone. It feels… odd. Like I’m leaving the house with no shoes on or something, but there’s a part of me that wants to please him.
The house is quiet when I get downstairs, and I walk through the lower level on silent feet, exploring the parts I glossed over last night. The living room is massive, and a huge TV dominates one wall of it, bookshelves that hold books and DVDs taking up the rest of the space on that wall, to either side of the TV. The couches look incredibly comfortable for all they probably cost more than most people’s cars, and the rug on the floor is so plush my toes sink right down into it.
The kitchen is also a marvel. There’s an island in the center of it, with four barstools on one side. The countertops are all pale marble, shot through with creamy pinks and shimmering gold. All the appliances look new, shiny stainless steel that has never seen a fingerprint. There’s a huge sink, and the fridge is like two of my old fridge put together, already fully stocked with the staples.
It’s the kind of kitchen that begs to be used, with the buckets of counter space and the shiny new stove, and I have the idea to make breakfast for my husbands before they get up.
That’s what wives do, right? We don’t have a traditional marriage by any stretch of the imagination, but making breakfast will be a nice gesture either way. Beginning like we mean to continue and getting off on a good foot.
I open the fridge again and pull out eggs and butter, as well as some veggies and bacon, with the idea to throw together some omelets for us all.
That idea quickly spirals out of control.
The truth is, I’m not a chef. The extent of my cooking skills is making toast, sandwiches, or a quick pasta dish that doesn’t take more than boiling water and opening a jar of sauce.
I manage to slop egg all over the counter when I’m whisking them up in a bowl that’s not quite big enough for eggs for four people. The veggies aren’t chopped evenly, so some of them burn in the pan while others are still crunchy in the middle. I have to turn on the fan over the stove to wick away the scent of burnt mushrooms, and I grumble to myself before giving up and scraping the whole mess into the trash.
As I stand there, debating starting again and trying to do the veggies better, I hear footsteps on the stairs. One after the other, the men file into the kitchen, and they all stand there, staring at me and the mess I’ve made.
My heart leaps into my throat. This was not the impression I wanted to make. I wanted them to see me pouring juice and setting down four perfect omelets on the table for us to eat together, not hovering between the stove and the fridge trying to salvage what I can out of this disaster.
“Good morning,” Xavier says cheerfully. “What’s all this?”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s a mess. I just wanted to make breakfast for us, since it’s our first morning in the new house, but I messed it up.” I curl my fingers into fists at my side, staring at the beautifully tiled kitchen floor. “I shouldn’t have tried to cook. It’s not what I’m good at, and I just thought…”
I trail off, not even sure what to say that won’t make me sound useless and pathetic to these men. They’re probably used to gourmet breakfasts made by private chefs at Michelin starred restaurants or something. Not whatever I could come up with in our kitchen before work.
“It’s not the end of the world, little bird,” Dominic says. He still sounds gruff, but at least he’s not angry. “Dishes can be washed, and… whatever that is can be thrown out.”
“Yeah,” Xavier chimes in. “And it’s the thought that counts, right? It was nice of you to want to do something like that for us.”
I swallow back the ‘I shouldn’t have bothered’ that wants to come out of my mouth and give them both shaky smiles. I glance at Tristan, and even though he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t look upset either. He just shrugs a shoulder when he sees me looking and crosses to the counter to put on coffee.
“I know you guys have… standards,” I tell them. “I mean, look at this house. Of course you have standards. And… I know Dominic doesn’t seem to like when things aren’t perfect.” I glance at him nervously, wringing my hands together behind my back.
“You are perfect,” Dominic says, and my eyes go wide as saucers.
I have no idea how to respond to that, and I also don’t know if he’s just saying it to make me feel better or if he actually thinks that. There’s no way to ask him that won’t make me sound pathetic either.
Xavier moves to the stove and turns the fan off, then leans over the sink to open the window there, letting fresh air sweep the rest of the smell of my failed attempt at breakfast out of the kitchen.
“You don’t have to cook for us anyway,” Xavier says. “You’re not here to be our maid or anything.”
“I know, I just wanted to do something nice.”
“We don’t need nice. We just need you to be yourself, little bird,” Dominic chimes in. He grabs the cutting board, still half full of mangled veggies and dumps the mess in the trash. “Just make what you would normally eat if this whole situation wasn’t happening.”
My lips twist in a smile because if this wasn’t happening, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be at my apartment, debating between making my favorite sandwich or microwaving a cup of oatmeal to eat before I ran out the door for work.
The absurdity of the thought of making something like that in a kitchen like this makes me laugh. “I really don’t think you would want to eat what I usually make when I’m left to my own devices.”
Dominic raises an eyebrow at me. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“It’s not!” I insist. “It’s just not the sort of thing you guys are probably used to. I know you get fancy meals catered in and things like that, and I’ve seen what the cafeteria at Vantage serves on a regular basis.”
Xavier grins, leaning against the counter with his arms folded. “Well, now you have to make it for us.” He glances at the clock. “If there’s time.”
“Oh, it’s very quick. That’s one of the reasons it’s so good. It’s easy to make and then run out the door.”
“All the more reason to make it then,” Dominic points out.
I glance at Tristan, who still hasn’t spoken yet this morning. He looks back, and there’s no expression on his face, but there’s something in his eyes. It looks like it could be curiosity, but that could just be wishful thinking. Either way, having two of the three of them urging me on makes it easier to give in.
“Okay,” I relent. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“We’re not that rich,” Xavier says. “Okay, we are, but that doesn’t mean we have to eat foie gras and caviar every night. Sometimes we order pizza, just like normal people.”
I giggle, going to the fridge and taking out a jar before heading to the pantry and grabbing another jar. There’s a fresh loaf of bread in the bread box on the counter— an honest to god bread box, and they want me to think they’re not that rich . I grab it, then lay out everything I need to start assembling sandwiches.
I can feel their eyes on me, watching as I dip from one jar with a knife and then use a fork to sort through the other one.
“Wait…” Xavier says, leaning in around me to see better. “Is that… are those pickles?”
“And peanut butter,” I reply, nodding sagely. “It’s the best combination.”
“Horrible,” Dominic says. “Absolutely awful.”
“You said you wanted to see what I would make!”
“I thought it was going to be something normal. Something humans eat.”
“I’m human,” I point out. “And I eat this all the time.”
He makes a face, but there’s something curious there too. He’s intrigued.
“I thought you were a baker,” Xavier points out. “Aren’t you supposed to make good food?”
“Well, baking and cooking are two different things.” I shoot a dirty look at the trash can that holds the failed breakfast I tried to make. “But this is good, I promise. The peanut butter adds this creamy richness and then the pickle brine cuts through the fat of it. You just have to trust me.” I give him my most winning smile, and he laughs.
“I can think of better things to pair with peanut butter,” Tristan says, speaking up for the first time. “Like jelly.”
“Jelly,” Dominic agrees. “Also acidic, also cuts through the fat.”
“Boring,” I say, grinning. “Played out. Uninspired.”
“Normal. A classic for a reason,” Dominic fires back.
His tone is light, and it’s incredible how we’re standing here in our shared kitchen, bantering over peanut butter and pickle sandwiches. Just a couple of weeks ago, I wouldn’t have even felt confident telling them what I like to eat, let alone making it for them. Maybe things are shifting, changing for the better between us.
At the very least, we’re learning how to get along now that we’re sharing space together. That’s something.
I place four sandwiches on the plates I was going to use for omelets and then look at each of the men in turn. “Are you going to try it?” I ask.
Surprisingly, Dominic is the one who steps up first. “Fine, all right. Can’t have it be said that I backed down from a fucking sandwich.” He takes it and takes a decisive bite. His face doesn’t change, but his shoulders move down from the almost defensive position they were in before. “Not as terrible as it could be,” is his verdict.
Xavier goes next, and he takes a smaller bite, chews and then swallows. “That’s… .interesting,” he allows. “Not bad.”
We all look at Tristan next, and it’s not really a surprise when he just turns and leaves the kitchen, not even touching his sandwich.
I go to put away the ingredients and finish cleaning up the mess of the kitchen, and then I head upstairs to change into something that doesn’t have bits of egg stuck to it and the scent of burnt vegetables clinging to the fabric.
When I come back down the stairs and go to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee, the plate with Tristan’s sandwich is empty.
I smile to myself, hoping he tried it and at least didn’t hate it.