9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Natalie
T he first thing I see when I walk into the kitchen is two men standing next to each other by the sink, both of them sporting identical wolf tattoos on their arms.
They’re easily bigger than me—much bigger, actually—and I pause at the open door with the grocery bags in my hands, wondering what to do.
I’m not scared because I interacted with many men at Ethan’s house, so I know that whatever the Cross cousins are up to, they have many people working in their “inner” circle.
But I need to get to work.
I clear my throat.
They turn around, and their expressions resemble those of deer caught in bright headlights.
“Sorry,” one of them—the one with more hair on his head—speaks up. “We didn’t know you were around. The boss said he needed some fruit, and we thought we could use the kitchen because you arrived.”
“Oh, oh,” I wave them on with a smile, “please continue. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just set these down here,” I walk to the counter, “and get the other stuff ready.”
As I unpack the food ingredients from the bags, the low hum of hushed voices catches my attention. The moment my gaze falls on them, the bickering halts abruptly, replaced by forced, casual expressions.
I turn back to my task, shaking my head. Not even five seconds pass before the hushed tones resume, more animated this time.
Abandoning my spot, I stride over to where they’re standing, crossing my arms as I give them a pointed look.
The one with a fuller head of hair clears his throat with uncertainty. “We were wondering—we were arguing the best ways to cut up apples. He,” he points to the other one in an accusing way that has me biting the inner part of my mouth to keep from laughing, “said we had to keep the skin on, and I told him to peel it.”
“You’ve never stepped into a kitchen before,” the other one argues.
“You’re wrong about that,” the first man protests, and then the situation descends into back-and-forth chaos. I’m forced to intervene by picking up the bowl of apples and moving it away.
They stop immediately and turn to me. “I’ll handle it,” I say, hoping my pacifist stance would do the job of ending the argument. “Don’t worry,” I add with an easy smile.
While the smile stops them from arguing, I get two feet helpers in return. “Is there anything we can do to help?” “I’m pretty good at making simple dishes like toast and eggs.”
I laugh as I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. ”
Expecting them to leave after my kind dismissal, I get to peeling the apples. I’m not sure which boss asked for a bowl of fruit, but I haven’t seen Ethan since I walked in, so I’m assuming it’s Anthony.
He was in the living room, and I was subjected to another warm— tight— hug when he saw me.
“I can do Anthony,” I say as my head bobs. Ethan, on the other hand… I don’t know. Everything about him makes it hard to think or function rationally. And there’s the water incident from two days ago.
I still fume when I think about it.
He could’ve caught me with ease, saving me the trouble of struggling to find my balance with my hands flailing. Ethan didn’t have to break my fall with his arms around my body if he was worried about unwanted physical contact on his end.
A simple push from behind, a firm hand to my back, or a brief wrist grab would have sufficed.
“He’s insufferable,” I mutter under my breath with a displeased head shake.
“Mr. Cross?”
I whip my head around at the comment, only to find both men standing at the door. “Wh-what are you still doing here?”
“We thought you could use an emergency helping hand,” the one with the lesser hair says, adding a split grin at the end.
I wish I knew their names because lesser and fuller hair sounds terrible. But then again, with the number of men I saw coming and going at Ethan’s house, I’m not sure I’ll remember names if it turns out to be the same situation here.
What’s with the “men,” though? They almost look like they belong to a gang, with closed-off expressions and impressive, intimidating heights .
Bodyguards? I wonder as I lose track of the conversation. It does make sense, seeing as Ethan controls a billion-dollar enterprise, and Anthony is always the subject of media coverage.
“Mr. Cross isn’t the easiest person to work with—” one of them says, drawing me back into the conversation as I focus on his words. “And you’re a nice lady. We want to help.”
Mr. Cross? Which one? Anthony or Ethan? It’s probably Ethan. Anthony is the closest thing to a sweetheart in this house.
“Thank you,” I say, offering them a small, appreciative smile. “But I think I can handle this on my own. For now,” I add, softening the refusal.
They nod, accepting my answer, and I turn back to the sink, washing the peeled apples under the running water. The sound of water rushing fills the room, and for a moment, everything feels calm.
When I turn the tap off, though, the sound of footsteps catches my attention. Thinking it’s them reconsidering, I grab a towel to dry my hands and turn around with a faint smile. “There’s something you can do for—”
I freeze mid-sentence.
It’s not them. It’s Ethan.
He stands in the doorway, his presence dominating the space with an air of quiet authority. The two men slip past him in a hurry, avoiding my gaze as they leave the room in near silence.
I swallow hard, feeling the shift in energy. Ethan’s eyes flicker from the apples on the counter to me, his expression stoic. He’s wearing dress pants, and his shirt is untucked as if he just came from somewhere important.
The half-decent, half-negligent appearance stirs a whirlwind of memories. From his unexpected presence the first day we met, the way he filled the room with quiet authority; the hungry, ravaging kiss that left me breathless the second time.
Then, the unreadable look he gave me two days ago, one that lingered in my thoughts far longer than it should have.
Something about Ethan makes me feel like I’m standing at the edge of the cliff with my fate unknown. Am I about to be consumed by desire, or will I feel like a bumbling person trying to piece together his intentions?
My fingers intertwine in an attempt to avoid looking lost, and I run through my thoughts, looking for something to say.
“Hi,” I settle on the most basic of them all.
He gives me a curt nod, then crosses the room, each stride purposeful and heading straight in my direction.
At first, I frown, confused, unsure of his intentions. But as the distance between us shrinks with every step, the air around us thickens, and my heart begins to hammer against my chest, a wild rhythm I can’t control.
Why is he coming towards me? What does he want? To kiss me? I doubt it. He acted like I was nothing the other day.
Things don’t just change overnight… do they?
Ethan pauses in front of me, and I swallow hard as my eyelids flicker of their own accord, growing heavy with thoughts about something else. He bends low… his head dips, my head begins to spin, and then straightens.
I open my eyes—I wasn’t even aware I had then closed—only to see him holding an apple.
He wasn’t going to kiss me. I knew it. I just got carried away for a moment .
When he reaches for the knife, something else occurs to me. The men said Mr. Cross asked them to get fruit, right ? Anthony was around when I walked in, but Ethan looks like he just arrived.
The apples must belong to Anthony.
Without thinking, my hand comes down like gravel on Ethan’s wrist, slapping the apple back into the bowl.
“What the—?” he doesn’t finish his sentence, turning to me in shock. Realizing what I just did, I stare at him in horror. “Why?”
“I—” I shake my head, forcing the stammer from my voice. “The apples are for Anthony. He asked those men to peel them for him or something. I took over because the kitchen is my job.”
Ethan sighs as he pulls his hand away without the apple. He folds his arms and stares at me, unblinking. “How did you know they were his?”
I shrug. “Because they said Mr. Cross.”
He looks like he wants to laugh—his lip twitches—but doesn’t. “Mr. Cross? I’m sure you know that Anthony and I share the same last name.”
“Yup,” I nod confidently.
His eyebrow arches. “And you think the apples are for him?”
I nod again. “Yeah.” I’m not certain where I’m getting the confidence from, but Ethan hasn’t said that he made the request, so he’s either trying to trip me with some reverse psychology or he’s just weird.
Ethan sighs. “I asked for them.”
I falter, my eyes squinting in confusion. “No, you didn’t,” I say, but it sounds weak this time.”
“How?” he asks. “How do you know? You just said that they said, Mr. Cross. Which means they could’ve been talking about either of us. Why are you sure it’s Anthony?”
Why? Well, for a number of reasons .
Although I’m not so certain about those reasons, I won’t let Ethan make me feel like an idiot. I tilt my chin and take a defensive step forward.
“One, he asked them to get the apples,” I say, ticking it off my fingers, “then, if you’d asked for it, they wouldn’t have walked away without saying something when you got here.” That’s a smart reason, actually. “And three—” I give him the once over, “you look like you’ve been out all morning. It’s definitely not you, Mr . Cross.”
There’s enough sarcasm when I refer to him as Mr. Cross, and it doesn’t go unnoticed with the second arched brow.
I wait for Ethan to say something—either accept that he was trying to make me slip up or provide evidence for the latter.
He doesn’t do that.
Instead, his expression shifts into a vague mask of intent as his gaze settles on me. Slowly, his eyes trail downward from my face, lingering on my chest.
I inhale sharply, heat blooming where his attention seems to burn, the intensity sending a spark down to my stomach. My breath catches as his eyes darken, filled with something primal, something that sends my pulse racing.
“I—” What do I say? That I don’t want him looking at me like he wants something?
That I haven’t stopped thinking about the night in his car, and if he pinned me against the wall, I’d have no arguments?
Ethan’s gaze returns to my face, and there’s no thought behind his eyes. “The apples are for Anthony,” he says in a low tone, then stares at me for a moment longer and makes to leave.
No.
“Why?” I voice out before I can think of self-preservation.
“Why?” he echoes .
I might as well come out with it. “Why?” I repeat. “Is it that you don’t want me here? Because you seem to have a problem with my presence. I haven’t done anything to you that I know of,” I throw in when his eyes narrow, “and yet you treat me like I’m a … problem you didn’t ask for.”
My voice quivers slightly, but I push through, refusing to let his piercing gaze rattle me. “I’ve tried to be professional, I’ve tried to stay out of your way, but no matter what I do, you look at me like I don’t belong. So, if there’s something I’ve done—or something you think I’ve done—just say it.”
I stop, realizing I’m breathing harder than I should be. His expression remains unreadable, but his jaw tightens just slightly, and his hands flex at his sides.
The silence stretches unbearably, thick with tension, until finally, he steps closer, his voice low and measured.
“It doesn’t matter if I want you here,” he says slowly, his tone almost dangerous in its restraint. “It’s not my decision either way.”
Then he turns on his heels and leaves the kitchen without another word.
“What,” I scoff, the sound heavy with unbelief. “What was that? What was I supposed to do with that?”
It doesn’t matter if he wants me here?
The decision is not his to make? I asked a simple question and got a vague response. Talking to Ethan is like going to a fortune teller and asking a direct question only to get a parable in return.
“That was my mistake,” I mutter as my hands clench by my side. I could’ve allowed him to take the apples and kept my mouth shut.
Blowing out a huff of air, I stride over to where I unloaded the bag of food ingredients for the day, forcing my hands to keep from carrying out my anger on the items .
I learned my lesson, though—never engage Ethan Cross in anything. If I hadn’t figured it out when I walked into his room, I should’ve known when he said nothing as I exited his car, still trying to fix my dress.
I should quit.
“No,” I push the thought away with vehemence. I’m not going to quit because the other Cross cousin is an outright asshole.
Rather, I’ll pretend like he doesn’t exist and continue working for Anthony.
How hard can it be?