Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Nash
My kitchen is a mess. Shredded cheese is littered over the top of the counter, chunks of diced tomato have fallen to the floor, and there are bowls of ingredients laid out sporadically in the most inconvenient of places.
Emmett looks between the screen of his phone and the task in front of him as he adds a dash of hot sauce to the pan warming on the stove.
“I have staff for this,” I tell him.
“And I have a perfectly functional pair of hands,” he responds with an arch of his brow.
I chuckle as he reaches across the counter for a bowl of cilantro, which I don’t have the heart to tell him tastes like soap to me, and he spills the contents into the pan, giving it a quick stir as the ingredients inside hiss.
Much like when he made french toast, he moves through the kitchen like a baby giraffe, double checking the instructions on his phone between each step before moving forward.
More ingredients join the others until the pan is filled with a brightly-colored blend which he scoops onto large tortillas, carefully tucking the mixture into them before dropping them back into the pan to crisp.
I like this; watching him cook for me, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. I like that he’s learning how to cook for me. Even my ex-husband never bothered with that. He was more than happy to use every accommodation that the staff in our home were expected to offer him.
This is strangely refreshing.
“I think we might have some poison-free breakfast burritos,” Emmett announces, carrying each of them on plates with an incline of his head toward the dining room. “Come on.”
My eyes trail over his toned back and the curve of his ass as I follow him, walking through my house as if he owns it, until we reach the dining room. He’s the only person that I’ve had proper meals with since my divorce, and it almost makes me uncomfortable because it feels so nice.
Watching him sit so comfortably in my home, eating food that he made in my kitchen, I could almost be convinced that whatever this thing is between us is normal. I could almost be tricked into believing that this isn’t some torrid affair with the son of a man that I hate.
I enjoy having him here.
As the two of us finish our meals, Emmett uses a napkin to wipe his mouth before shoving his chair away from the table with a satisfied sigh.
“Where do you keep your cleaning stuff?” Pulling his lips into a tight line, he sighs and answers his own question. “You don’t know.”
Grabbing me by the hand, he pulls me off of my seat and out of the dining room. “What are we doing?”
“We’re finding your shit,” he laughs. As we pass a member of my staff, he says, “Please leave the messes in the kitchen and dining room. We’ve got it.”
“Pretty boy—”
“Just shut up, menace.”
I’m dragged through the first floor of my own house, forced to open cabinets and drawers alongside Emmett as we search for cleaning products. Moose trails the two of us, barking every now and again just to let us know that he is, in fact, playing as well.
It isn’t until we land in one of the smaller bathrooms in the house that Emmett pulls open a utility cabinet and spreads his arms out at his sides with a flourish.
“Ta-da,” he sings, “we found the mother lode.” He shoves a handful of washrags into my arms, following with a spray bottle of multipurpose cleaner, before grabbing another bottle of cleaner and a canister of what look to be bleach wipes for himself.
“Don’t worry, I won’t make you learn how to mop,” he teases. “You might combust.”
As we re-enter the kitchen, he picks up our plates and runs them under the faucet for a moment before slipping them into the dishwasher.
Crouching beneath the sink, he pulls out a bottle of dishwashing detergent and hands it to me.
“Pour that in the little compartment to the fill line,” he instructs.
“If I keep doing my staff’s work for them, I won’t have any reason to keep them around,” I tell him.
“Or maybe you’ll understand why you should tell them thanks every now and again,” he winks.
We work together to clean the mess, Emmett going so far as to wipe down the range hood that hangs above the stove, and when we finish, he braces his hands on the counter behind me to pin me in place.
“Congratulations,” he teases, pressing his lips to mine. “You just cleaned your own kitchen. Now, you know how to tie your own shoes, right? Or do I need to—”
I land a playful shove against his chest, sending his body away from mine with a laugh. “I won’t be making a habit of this, you know,” I tell him.
A look of mischief crosses his face, the left corner of his mouth pushing a dimple into his cheek as he smirks, and he smacks a dish towel against my chest. “I gotta get to work before Dad starts calling.”
“In yesterday’s clothes?”
“They think I have a girlfriend,” he chuckles. “They’re not gonna ask questions.”
I watch as he flies up the stairs to grab his belongings, rushing back down no more than two minutes later, pulling his slacks up his legs as he moves.
His shirt and suit jacket are draped over his shoulder and his shoes are untied – he’s a mess.
His hand cups my face as he rushes past me, taking just a second to press a quick kiss to my lips.
“See you later,” he tells me. Halfway out of the building, he shouts, “Tell them thank you!”
It isn’t until he steps out of my front door that I remember that I, too, need to get to work. If the clock above the sideboard is correct, I’m actually running late.
·
“You seem to be in good spirits today,” my assistant comments as he trails me down the hall.
“Do I?”
I don’t offer him any information, and I won’t.
While he’s worked for me for nearly eight years, he isn’t my friend.
Everything that I know about the man, I’ve learned against my own will; being shown pictures from his wedding and of his children when I didn’t ask to see them, hearing stories about their basketball or tee ball games – or whichever it is that the older one plays.
“Some complaints have come in from the girls,” he tells me. “I told them to—”
“Write them down. I’ll read through them later.”
“Oh.” He blinks back his surprise as he pulls up his phone to take notes. “I can do that.”
With a nod, I leave him to his task, not bothering to elaborate on the request.
He’s right, I am in good spirits lately. I’m practically fucking chipper.