Chapter 15
We’re Broken, Aren’t We?
Paisley
For what feels like the hundredth time, I wipe the mop across that point of the floor with the spot. I don’t know how—and I don’t want to know how—it got there. It’s sticky and colored a black-green. It looks really toxic.
“Morning.”
I blow my hair out of my face, hold my breath, and look up.
Knox comes down the stairs…wearing boxers.
Really short boxers. I can see how his lateral muscle cords merge into his lower parts and disappear beneath the white waistband marked Calvin Klein.
With every step, the muscles of his washboard stomach give me a considerable show.
Everything in me begins to tingle. Despite what a prick he was being last night, I can’t stop my body from reacting to him.
How could it not? Knox looks like a Hollywood star on the cover of GQ.
When I realize that I’m staring, I quickly look away and go back to the spot on the ground, only to recognize that it’s finally disappeared.
“Morning,” I reply. I lean the mop against the wall and walk into the open kitchen to make him breakfast. I hate that I’m responsible for that, too.
It’s humiliating to have to serve him despite his arrogant attitude.
But the benefits of the job outweigh it.
Mr. Winterbottom pays me more than I could have dreamed, and I don’t have to look for an apartment.
Instead of sitting down at the table, Knox slides onto one of the stools, rubs his eyes, and plants his elbows on the granite of the island. “Sleep well?”
For a while, I stare into the full refrigerator, wondering what to make him.
Then I decide the effort isn’t worth it.
“You mean, after needing two hours to get all the party animals out, and after waking up three hours later so I could get everything straight before your dad came home?” I shrug, close the fridge, and open one cupboard after another until I come across a box of Cheerios stuffed into a back corner.
Together with a bowl, spoon, and jug of milk, I shove everything across the island and feign a smile.
“Yeah, Knox. Thanks a lot. I slept really, really well for those three hours.”
Knox blinks. His eyes are still crusted with sleep.
His eyes wander from me to the cereal before the right side of his mouth begins to twitch.
“Cheerios, wow. I haven’t seen those since I was in high school.
Have to have hit the expiration date a few years ago.
” He grabs the box and looks around. “No way. They’re good until next week!
” He stares in disbelief at the date for a second before grinning and shaking his head. “Dad, you old fox…”
I roll my eyes, turn, and take a package of eggs out of the fridge. Then I put a pan on the stove, throw some oil inside, and steal the jug of milk out of Knox’s hands in order to prepare some scrambled eggs.
Knox follows my movements. “Am I right in assuming that the scrambled eggs aren’t for me?”
“A second ago you were happy to have your Cheerios,” I reply, without looking at him, and pour the eggs into the pan. It hisses. “How could I ruin that for you?”
Knox snorts and tips his cereal into his bowl. Reaching across the island for the milk his hand brushes my underarm and I feel like I’ve been hit by lightning. I hold my breath.
Why is my body reacting to him like this?
Knox pauses in the middle of his movement.
Halfway over the island he looks up at me, his lips spread lightly, a surprised look in his eyes.
“Sorry.” Then he grabs the milk, pours it over his Cheerios, and shovels one spoonful after another into his mouth.
At the rate he’s going, I seriously ask myself how long it’ll take before he chokes and I have to perform the Heimlich maneuver.
I can already see the headlines: “Snowboarder Knox Winterbottom overdoses on Cheerios. Chalet girl fails to revive him.”
I clear my throat, take a plate out of the cupboard, and put my scrambled eggs on it. “Why are you even awake? It’s shortly before six.”
“Jogging,” he replies between mouthfuls, a drop of milk trickling out of his mouth and dripping onto his chest. Suddenly the scrambled eggs taste surprisingly dry as I watch the trickle make its way down his muscles to land on the floor. Knox casts a glance over his shoulder. “Is Wyatt still here?”
“No.” The memory of his pal and the brunette make me groan. I put a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth. “They were the last ones to go. They spent a good thirty minutes drowning out my knocks and entreaties for them to leave with unambiguously…suggestive sounds.”
Knox guffaws. In the process, managing to distribute some milk and a few Cheerios onto the granite. Unfortunately, some of it hits my plate, which I angrily push to the side.
“Suggestive?” he repeats, without caring that he’s just spit on my breakfast. “Who uses the word suggestive?”
I ignore him and stand up instead, pushing a cup beneath the automatic coffee machine and then leaning back against the sideboard with a latte macchiato. I contemplatively stir the foam. “What did Wyatt mean when he said you didn’t hire figure skaters?”
Knox’s face darkens. He stops stuffing himself with Cheerios and pokes the milk with his spoon instead. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? You’re telling me he just happens to think so?”
“Yeah.”
I sigh. “You don’t want to tell me. Got it. That’s fine with me, but just say so.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.” His tone is cutting, and his eyes grow small, but then he lets out a sigh and his tense features smooth out. “Sorry. I shouldn’t speak to you like this.”
His words surprise me. Just to do something, I down the rest of my macchiato. I keep my eyes on what’s left of the foam as I twirl the glass in my fingers. Eventually, I look at him. “Then why are you?”
Knox is uncomfortable. It’s obvious. His wide body slides back and forth on the small stool. He keeps drowning one single Cheerio in milk with his spoon. “No idea.” He pauses before continuing. “Maybe to protect myself.”
His words remain hovering between us, creating an imaginary energy field. The tension is almost tangible.
“From what?” My voice has grown quieter, too. Softer. “I’m not going to do anything to you.”
Knox looks up. His eyes suddenly look endlessly tired. “You know what, Paisley… Inside every person you know there’s a person you don’t.” He pushes his spoon to the side and stands up. “Excuse me.”
I watch him go up the stairs and disappear into his room.
A part of me wants to go after him. A part of me—and this doesn’t make me happy at all—wants to take his face in my hands and caress his cheeks until that sad look leaves his eyes.
And then another part of me says I should just get Knox out of my head.
I came to Aspen to start a new life and to concentrate on myself. I have a great goal, and I’ll only meet it if I’m focused. My intention to leave Minneapolis and find myself anew as a powerful woman in the Rockies is what gave me the strength to escape Ivan. It took me years.
And now? I’m standing in the kitchen of a star snowboarder, allowing myself to feel more for him than I should. I shouldn’t care about Knox one way or the other. I’m here to get to the Olympics. This job is a means to an end. The fact that I’m under one roof with Knox cannot distract me.
I never want to be bound to someone ever again, because, in the end, it will destroy me.
Once again.