3. Alexandra
three
When he leaves the room, my head is dizzy, and my heart is pounding.
I’ll chalk it up to the long drive. Nothing a shower can’t fix. I climb inside the antique tub, careful to tuck the shower curtain inside. The bathroom floor is a beautiful solid hardwood I would hate to damage. The tub, sink, and toilet must have been added long after the house was built. The shower handle leaks slightly, showing its age. Everything here is so effortlessly vintage. People in the city would pay thousands for this country feel that is just so authentic here.
As I lather my hair with shampoo, I find myself smiling. This will be good for me. The aftermath? I’m not so sure about. But for now, I will find some self-indulgence in this fantasy land.
The shower gel feels good on my body, and my thoughts drift to Christopher before I rein them in. Yikes! I’m not that person. I can’t help but wonder though. What is it like to be with a man like him? I’ve never dated a guy with such a healthy masculine vibe. Like testosterone wrapped in a flannel blanket. Besides his incredibly good looks, what struck me most about him was his strong confidence that was everything but arrogant.
It felt good to be in his presence.
And the way he treated the sweet gossip, Sophie?
So nice.
Most people I know would have turned her away. She wouldn’t have made it through the door. Granted, I come from New York, and this is Vermont. So sure.
But he gave her bread and muffins and whatever she wanted. And then he walked her outside. In the freezing cold. It must have dropped to fifteen degrees out there.
And he was wearing just a shirt.
And he made small talk with her!
Who does that?
I sigh as I exit the shower.
Is it okay to have a platonic crush on your boss? Because your girl can’t help it.
As I pat myself dry, my cell phone buzzes with a text message.
Sarah
How’s it going?
It’s going! Got here not too long ago, getting ready for dinner
Sooooo. Tell me???
Not much to tell yet. The town is so romantic and my bedroom is the cutest ever!
I take a quick video and send it to her.
OMG is this for real?
Are those eaves?
And vintage built-in bookshelves?
Yes
everything is so adorable
Is that a fireplace?
I don’t think it works
Doesn’t matter
I’m so jealous right now.
3
Soooo
The baker…???
???
What about him?
ugh.
Is he a 10 or what?
hahaha did you google him
Duh
He has someone.
Of course he would
On the upside
did you unpack your shit yet
No
When you do you’ll thank me
What for
I threw something in there
Awww so sweet what is it
something handy
thx xoxo
gtg
eggplant emoji>
3
I throw on my best-fitting pair of jeans and a dark green cashmere sweater and examine myself in the mirror above the sink. I dab some concealer under my eyes and declare myself presentable. The mouthwatering smell of a home-cooked meal wafts all the way to me, and my stomach growls.
It dawns on me that I’m invading these people’s privacy, living under their own roof, and didn’t even think to bring a little thank you gift. I know I’m not really a guest, and I’m here to work under conditions that were pretty much dictated to me, but I suddenly feel self-conscious of my presence within this home.
I need to do everything in my power to stay out of their way and not intrude in their daily life. Especially given the very inappropriate thoughts that went through my mind when I first met Christopher. Granted, I didn’t notice a wedding band, but then again, I wasn’t specifically looking for one.
I’m vaguely ashamed of myself.
On my way down, I glance at the second floor. The large hallway is lined with several doors, all closed except the one at the end where a child’s bed is softly lit.
The bakery is bathed in a warm semi-darkness. I run my hand on the soft wooden counter as I circle to the back of it. I push open the door behind the register and find myself in a large, brightly lit room with metallic prep tables, ovens, fridges, and baking racks glistening. It looks very professional, in stark contrast with the rustic warmth of the bakery.
“Over here,” Christopher calls as a door in the back opens, framing his silhouette.
My stomach flutters. I startle and steady myself on a cold prep table, turning my face away from him. “This is very impressive.”
“Yeah, it’s a nice lab. Can’t complain. I got a good grant.” He smirks. “Come on in.”
I step into a vast kitchen anchored around a large, solid pine table. A child’s drawings are taped to most of the cabinets. The smell of sautéed onions and subtle herbs comes from a creamy stew simmering on the stovetop, reminding me again how famished I am. The kitchen extends into a larger space that is mostly dark right now, bathing in the bluish, flickering light of a television set.
“Skye!” Christopher calls out.
I tug on my sweater, curiosity eating at me. A woman who cooks like a goddess (I don’t need to taste the stew to know it will be heaven), lives in a storybook village, and is married to a hunk of a man? She’s bound to be my inspiration. Forget learning how to bake.
“There’s my princess!” he exclaims as a patter of steps sound and a little girl runs into his arms. He picks her up with familiar ease. “Alexandra, meet my daughter, Skye. Skye, meet our new apprentice, Alexandra.”
Skye has Christopher’s dark complexion, brightened by honey-gold eyes. Unruly locks of jet-black hair cascade on her shoulders. She leans against her father’s chest and studies me with widening eyes, her face tilted to the side so that it’s flush against her father’s shoulder. She seems very intimidated by me.
“You are so pretty, Skye.” I smile. “Thank you for sharing your home with me.” I cock my head to the side.
She dangles her leg, dropping her slipper, and extends her foot toward me.
“We had a mani-pedi session,” Christopher clues me in.
“Ooooh, I love the glitter! Isn’t it the best? You look like a fairy!”
Taking a deep breath, she straightens herself off her father’s chest and shows me her nails with matching glitter.
“Oh, wow. Love it,” I say, gently holding the tip of her hand in mine.
She stretches from her father’s arms and reaches for my braid.
A smile warms Christopher’s face, and he winks at me. “Time to set the table,” he says to Skye as he sets her down.
She puts her slipper back on and starts tiptoeing from a cupboard to the table as Christopher busies himself at the stove.
“I’ll help you if you tell me where to find everything,” I offer.
She rushes her movements, proud of her responsibility. Christopher stifles a smile as she sets three plates on the table.
“You can grab the glasses,” he says to me while whipping oil, vinegar, and spices in a salad bowl. “Top of that cupboard over there. Grab two wine glasses for us. Skye has her own tumbler.”
Three plates, three glasses. So it’s just him and his daughter.
I can’t help the flutter inside my body, but quickly shut it down.
My reaction is all kinds of wrong.
Christopher sets the Dutch oven on the table, his forearms flexing slightly, a vein standing out against his strong wrist.
He plops Skye on a regular chair boosted by a pair of thick cookbooks. “Please,” he says, motioning to the chair across from him. Still standing, he leans over my side to pour wine in my glass, and I’m hugged by his warmth and scent—fresh laundry and something woodsy—and instantly feel both relaxed and incredibly wound up.
We feast on the stew that has been making my stomach rumble for far too long. The meat melts in my mouth and is perfectly completed by farfalle al dente and a tossed salad with homemade vinaigrette. It’s touchingly clear from Christopher’s ease in the kitchen that he cooks everything from scratch, and if that doesn’t make a woman melt, I don’t know what will.
How is it that he’s single?
“So. You met Sophie,” Christopher says.
“I looooove Sophie,” Skye cuts in. “She writes fairy tales.”
“Is that right? That is so cool!”
“She also reads stories at the library. I love story time. Do you like story time, Alek-zandra?”
Story time brings up memories from before. From when Mom was still alive. “I used to love story time.” It’s a bittersweet memory, so I snuff it. “What else do you like doing?” My eyes dart between Skye and Christopher.
“Hockey,” they both answer and laugh at the same time, their eyes dancing.
“Jinx! You owe me two stories, Daddy.”
Christopher clutches his chest. “Two?”
We all laugh together, and my eyes well up at the easiness going around the table. “I think I saw an ice rink in the park. Is that where you play hockey?”
“That’s The Green. It’s just for fun,” Skye says.
“The Green?” I ask.
“It’s really white right now.” She nods, like she knows where I’m coming from. “Did you bring your skates?”
“The Green is the park in the middle of town,” Christopher explains. “They flood it in the winter to create an ice rink, but it’s only recreational. Hockey happens at The Arena, outside of town. Just a couple of miles after the covered bridge.”
“Did you bring your skates?” Skye repeats.
“I’m afraid I don’t have skates,” I say, amused at the bewildered look on her face when I confess that tidbit of information.
“That’s okay,” she says. “There’s a bin of skates on The Green for people who forgot theirs. You can borrow some. Right, Daddy?”
“Can you skate?” Christopher asks.
“It’s been a while.”
“No pressure. We don’t want you to hurt yourself. We also like to fat bike, right? And snowboard.”
Skye nods. “Aunt Grace likes to bike with us. Do you know my aunt Grace?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure I’ll meet her soon.”
“She’s my cousin,” Christopher explains. “You’ll meet her tomorrow. She takes Skye to school each morning before opening her salon.”
“Daddy always picks me up from school because I’m his pri-o-rity. Right, Daddy?”
Christopher sets down his fork and leans over to kiss his daughter’s forehead. “Yes you are.” While Skye turns back to her food, he furrows his brow and ruffles her hair, his expression both worried and tender in a way that stirs me.
“What grade are you in?”
“I’m in Miss Hen-der-son’s class.” She nods. “She’s very nice. I like her very much.” She stares at me intently.
“What do you like most in school?” I ask.
“Do you have children?” she asks back.
“Nope,” I answer.
“Are you married?”
“Not married.”
She scrunches her face. “But you have a boyfriend, right?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Skye,” Christopher interrupts. “You’re being nosy.”
She barely glances at her father. “Sorry,” she huffs. “Do you have brothers? Is that an okay question?”
“No brothers.”
She sighs. “Me neither. I wish I had brothers.”
Christopher looks at her, surprised, but says nothing.
“Do you have sisters, then?” she asks.
“No sisters either. Just a very good friend.” I anticipate her question, so I add, “Her name is Sarah.”
“My best friend is Caroline. We just had a fight, but tomorrow we’ll make up.”
“Oh yeah. You don’t want to stay upset at your best friend.”
“Do you look like your mommy?” she asks.
Christopher takes a long sip of his wine.
“You know, I’m not sure. I guess so?” There was a time when I spent hours looking in the mirror, seeking a resemblance. I always came to the conclusion that I must look like Mr. Pierce. Whoever the hell he was. “It doesn’t really matter,” I add on a hunch.
“Where is your mommy?”
Hmmm. Intuitive. “She’s in heaven now.”
“I don’t have a mommy.”
“Well, you have a wonderful daddy.”
“Was your daddy sad when your mommy went to heaven?”
“No. I didn’t have a daddy.”
She widens her eyes.
“Skye, you are being too nosy,” Christopher says and shifts on his seat. “We don’t want to make Alexandra sad, do we?”
“It’s alright,” I answer with a smile for Skye. “It’s not making me sad.”
A phone rings in the distance, and Christopher stands reluctantly, his gaze darting between me and Skye. He glances at Skye’s plate, which is still nearly full, and makes two portions. “Come on, pumpkin, eat at least this much,” he says, pointing to the smaller portion before leaving the room.
It’s not lost on me that he’s trying to change the conversation.
“How old are you, Skye?” I ask her when he’s gone.
“Do you like my daddy?” she asks back.
So, that’s what this is. “He seems very nice, and I’m sure I’ll learn a lot from him.”
She dangles her foot under the table, moves her food around her plate. She seems deep in her thoughts.
“Is there something else you wanted to ask me?” I prompt her. “I don’t mind nosy,” I add on a whisper.
“Are you going to marry my daddy?” she finally whispers back. Her gaze is fierce, her breathing hitched. She clearly gathered all her courage to ask me that.
This is serious business for her. I owe her a serious answer. “Oh, no. Never. I’m only here to learn and work. And I’ll be gone in less than six months.”
Her eyes widen and her mouth gapes.
“That sounds like a long time when you are six years old, but in grown-up time, it’s very short.” I snap my fingers. “It goes by just like that.”
She finally brings her food to her mouth. Her eyes never leave me while she chews. “And then, you’ll leave?”
“And then, I’ll leave.”
She takes another forkful while I take a sip of wine. I’ve never been in her shoes, but I lost my mother when I was barely older than her. Stuff like that makes you think about what matters. “That was very brave of you to ask me that, Skye. You remind me of myself when I was your age.”
Christopher walks back in from his phone call. “Someone’s appetite is back,” he comments, mussing up Skye’s hair on his way. “How did that happen?”
Skye glances at me.
“Girl talk,” I say.
“Really,” he says. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s polite for none of your business,” I answer.
Skye giggles and takes a heaping forkful of food.
Christopher looks at me sternly. God help me, he’s even sexier when he’s upset.
I hold his gaze for a beat.
He doesn’t flinch.
“It was nothing, really,” I breathe. “A harmless secret.”
He looks back at Skye. “You can use that secret anytime you want. Skye finished her plate.”
Skye scrapes the last of the gravy with her fork, wipes her mouth with her napkin, and stacks her cutlery on her plate. She slides off her chair and takes her plate to the sink.
“I’ll be right up to tuck you in after dishes,” Christopher says.
I stand and start clearing the table. “I’ll take care of dishes. Two stories, right? That’s got to take some time.”
He pauses and looks at me intently. “Are you two ganging up on me?” He flashes a quick smile, and my heartbeat picks up. “I bet you Skye’d forgotten already.”
“So not true!” Skye giggles. “And you love reading me stories!”
“That’s true,” he says, following Skye. Turning to me, he adds, “You can tell me all about your baking experience when I come back.”
That is going to be a brief conversation, mister, unless we’re going to compare different brands of mixes.And I don’t think that’s what he means by baking.