Chapter 4 #2
The kitchen makes her gasp again, but this time it's different. This time it's like she's coming home. She moves through the space with reverence, running her hands over the Viking range, opening the Sub-Zero refrigerator, testing the weight of the copper pots hanging from the rack.
"This is incredible," she breathes. "I could cook anything in here."
"That's the idea." I lean against the counter, watching her explore. "Fair warning—William's going to expect miracles. He always does."
"I can handle it." She opens a drawer, finds it full of exactly what she expected, and smiles. "Everything's so well organized."
"That's Hans, our caretaker. Former military. He and William speak the same language of being obsessively organized."
After she's familiarized herself with the kitchen, I lead her through the mudroom to the converted barn that serves as my studio. My heart pounds as I open the door. I've never brought a woman here who wasn't modeling for me. This is my space, my sanctuary.
"Holy—" She stops in the doorway, eyes wide.
The space is flooded with light from the skylights I had installed two years ago. Canvases cover the walls—landscapes, abstracts, portraits. My worktable is its usual mess of paint tubes and brushes. The smell of turpentine and oil paint hangs in the air like perfume.
"Knox, these are incredible." She moves deeper into the space, studying each painting. "You're really talented. Like, professionally talented."
"Thanks." I scratch the back of my neck, suddenly self-conscious. "It's just something I do to relax."
She stops at a landscape of the valley in autumn, all golds and reds and impossible light. "This is more than relaxation. This is... you're an artist. A real artist."
"Tell that to William," I mutter.
"Is that why you're angry with him? Because he doesn't support your art?"
I consider lying, but something about her makes me want to be honest. "He thinks it's a waste of time. A rich kid's hobby. He's probably right."
"He's not." She moves to another painting, this one of a woman laughing, caught mid-motion. "These have soul. You can't fake that."
She stops in front of my nude studies, and I see her shoulders tense. Shit. I forgot about those.
The paintings are tasteful but intimate—women in various poses, all focused on light and shadow and form. One model in particular appears in several paintings, a redhead with pale skin that caught the light beautifully.
"I use professional models," I say quickly. "From the art school in Zurich. It's all very... professional."
"They're beautiful," she says, but her voice is different now. Careful. "Very... detailed."
"It's about capturing the human form, the way light plays on skin, the—" I stop, realizing I'm babbling.
"I'd love to paint you sometime. If you're comfortable with it.
Clothed!" I add hastily. "Fully clothed.
I was thinking of your portrait, actually.
The way the light catches your face when you're cooking, it's—"
She turns to face me, and there's amusement in her eyes now. "You want to paint me cooking?"
"Or just... being. You have a very expressive face." God, could I sound any more like an idiot? "What I mean is—"
"I thought you meant..." She gestures at the nudes, color rising in her cheeks. "When you said you wanted to paint me, I assumed..."
"Oh. Oh!" My face heats. "No, I would never—I mean, unless you wanted—but I wasn't suggesting—"
She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected in the quiet studio. "Knox, breathe."
I do, dramatically, which makes her laugh harder. "Sorry. I'm not usually this awkward. It's just, you're different from the women I usually..."
"Paint?"
"Know," I finish. "You're real. You don't look at me and see a trust fund baby who plays with paint. Or maybe you do, but—"
"I see someone who stood up for me," she says quietly. "Someone who has proven to me already how good of a guy he is."
The moment stretches between us, charged with possibility. I want to kiss her. Want to pull her against me and see if she tastes as sweet as she looks. But footsteps on the path outside break the spell.
"Knox!" William's voice carries through the door. "We have a conference call with Tokyo in ten minutes."
"And there's the leash," I mutter.
Carina touches my arm, and the contact sends electricity through me. "He's not that bad. He's just... stressed."
"And controlling," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Maybe." She looks around the studio once more. "Would you really like to paint me? Clothed," she adds with a smile that makes my stomach flip.
"More than anything," I admit.
"Then yes. After I get the kitchen sorted and figure out tomorrow's meals."
"Deal." I walk her to the door, then pause. "Carina? Thanks for your help with the cheese incident. You didn't have to take care of me."
"That's what friends do," she says simply, and something in me cracks open.
Friends. It's a start.
As she heads back to the main house, I linger in the doorway, watching her go. The wind is picking up, and I notice the storm clouds gathering over the peaks. They're dark, heavy with the promise of snow. A blizzard's coming—I can feel it in the air.
Good. Maybe being snowed in will force William to actually see Carina as a person instead of an employee. Maybe it'll give me time to capture her on canvas, to figure out why she makes me want to be better than the aimless rich kid everyone thinks I am.
I think about how she looked at my paintings, really looked at them. Not the polite glances I get from William's business associates or the calculated interest from women who see dollar signs. She saw what I was trying to say with each brushstroke.
My phone buzzes.
William again: Conference call. Now.
I consider ignoring it, maybe claiming I didn't get a signal out here. But that would just make things worse. With William, defiance has to be strategic.
I grab my phone and text Travis: Storm coming. Want to bet on how long before Will loses his shit about the weather?
His response is immediate: Already happened. He's recalculating the supplier delivery schedules as we speak.
I laugh, but it's hollow. My brother can't control the weather any more than he can control his attraction to Carina. The difference is, I'm not afraid to admit what I want.
I think about the ex—Dylan—and wonder what kind of man makes a woman like Carina think she deserves to be treated like furniture. The thought makes my hands clench into fists. If I ever meet him...
But no. That's not what she needs. She doesn't need another man trying to control her life, even if it's meant protectively. She needs someone who sees her strength, her talent, her worth.
As I close up the studio and head back to the house, I make a decision. I'm going to paint her—not just her portrait, but what I see when I look at her. The competence in the kitchen, the vulnerability when she thinks no one's watching, the way she lights up when she talks about food.
And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll get to show her that not all men are like Dylan or William. Some of us know how to appreciate perfection when we see it.
The first snowflakes start to fall as I reach the main house. By tonight, we'll be snowed in. No escape, no distractions, just the four of us in this beautiful prison William's built.
I can't wait.
When I enter the main house, I expect to find William in his office, but instead he's in the kitchen with Carina. They both look up as I walk in, and there's something different about the scene. William's not barking orders. He's actually... sitting. At the kitchen island. With a cup of coffee.
"Knox," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "The Tokyo call has been postponed an hour. Weather issues on their end."
I glance between them, trying to read the atmosphere. Carina's chopping vegetables, but she looks more relaxed than she did this morning.
"I was just asking Carina about her menu plans for the week," William continues, and the way he says it—like he's having a conversation, not issuing commands—makes me do a double-take.
"I thought we could do fondue one night," Carina says, glancing at me. "Since we're in Switzerland. If that's okay?"
"You don't need our permission for menu choices," William says before I can respond. "You're the chef. We trust your judgment."
I nearly choke on air. Did William just... delegate? Without any opinions?
"I'd also like to visit the local markets," Carina continues, emboldened. "To source fresh ingredients. I saw online there's an excellent one in the village."
"Of course. Take the Mercedes whenever you need it." William stands, straightening his cuffs—a nervous gesture I recognize. "And Carina? I apologize for this morning. You're not... that is, Knox was right. You're part of the team, not..." He struggles with the words.
"Not the help," I supply helpfully.
William shoots me a look but nods. "Exactly. We'll be taking meals together, of course. As a... family." The word seems to stick in his throat, but he gets it out.
Carina smiles, and it's like sunshine breaking through clouds. "Thank you. That means a lot."
"Right. Well." William looks supremely uncomfortable with the emotional direction of the conversation. "I'll be in my office. The Tokyo call will be here before I know it and um..."
He escapes, but not before I catch the way he glances back at Carina.
"What did you do to him?" I ask once he's gone.
She laughs, returning to her chopping. "Nothing. He came in here all stiff and formal, started to give me a list of requirements for dinner. Then he just... stopped. Said Knox was right and asked what I'd like to cook instead."
"He admitted I was right?" I clutch my chest dramatically. "Are you sure that was William? Not an imposter?"
"Stop." But she's smiling. "He's trying. That matters."
I watch her work for a moment, the efficient way she moves, the little hum of contentment she probably doesn't know she makes.
"Want help with dinner prep before I have to get on that call with Travis?" I offer.
"Can you cook?"
"I can follow directions. And I'm excellent at chopping things. Art school taught me knife skills."
"For cutting canvas?"
"Maybe."
She laughs again, and I realize I could get addicted to that sound. "Okay, but if you lose a finger, you're explaining it to William."
As I wash my hands and take the knife she offers, I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, things are shifting. William's trying to be better. Carina's finding her place here. And me?
I'm exactly where I want to be—in a kitchen with a beautiful woman while snow starts to fall outside, pretending I don't notice how our fingers brush when she hands me vegetables to chop.
The storm's coming, but for the first time in years, I'm not dreading being snowed in with my family.
Because now we have Carina. And everything's different with her here.