Chapter 10
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Sleep is for the weak.
Maelin
Did I sleep much this past week while getting adjusted to my work schedule with Zakery? No. But I’m sure that I’ve ascended beyond a need for rest. If I listen to my new boss’s propaganda, I should no longer rely on such mortal things. In my life, there’s only the laundry, my sewing machine, and the promise that Monday will come, bringing with it another week of lovely, lovely time with Zakery.
Who is kind and reassuring and funny and doesn’t make me feel like an inconvenience even when I very much am. Who compliments me as though I’m priceless. Who’s fake dating me to help me get over a man who made me feel worthless so often I would believe it if I didn’t have my family to remind me I’m important to them.
Zakery could have asked me to pose for him in settings outside his bedroom.
He could have easily convinced me, or bribed me with time and a half, whenever he felt the need to draw me in public.
Instead, in one day, for that one beautiful picture he drew at Brew Tea, he handed me over a thousand dollars of my favorite things and said I was worth at least twice that outstanding gift.
He not only makes me feel important, he makes me feel… desirable . Wanted. Beautiful. Like someone who isn’t a burden or an annoyance or…a disappointment.
I haven’t felt like this since before intimacy started coming with the dread that Harry would ask for more then get upset when I said no .
I don’t know how Zakery does it.
Taking nothing but inspiration for his art, he makes me feel more important than I have in six years.
“ Maelin. ”
Jumping awake, I rake in a breath, wince as a soreness spreads through my neck, and take in my surroundings.
I’m…at my desk, in front of my sewing machine. The light is on. The thread has pulled out a yard, connecting to the fabric I was working on, which is now in a heap on the floor.
As my eyes adjust to the brightness of being awake, Morana’s face clears in my vision—expression incredulous.
I yawn.
She throws her arms out. “ Maelin . Where did you get all of this ? Did you blow your entire paycheck on fabric ?” Her finger juts toward the perfect little section of dark shades, which I have meticulously organized beside the rainbow of pinks and whites I love so much. “Also, are those a clue that you’re gonna make me something?”
I rub sleep from my eyes and try to figure out what is going on. “What…day is it?” I startle, halfway to my feet. “The laundry. I had a load in.”
“I took care of it. Don’t worry.”
I settle back down in my chair, staring up at my sister.
She says, “It’s Sunday. Afternoon. I’ve put two loads through for you. You should be caught up once this last one is dried and folded. I implore you, once again, to drop these clients. It’s not healthy for you to be up all night like this, and we don’t need the spare change now that we’re working for the Bachelors.”
How quickly her tune has changed. I wish I knew what Kaleb did to her that put her at such immaculate ease. I mean, sure, he does radiate peace without any underlying pretense of harsh lines like Zakery, but still . Morana has had relationship trust issues ever since that stuff happened with Talira—which, for the record, is a stupid name outshone only by the stupidity of the person who owns it. Stifling another yawn, I say, “It’s our fallback.”
“Fifty dollars a week doing just over twenty loads of laundry in the evenings and through the night is barely a fallback. Also, we don’t need a fallback.” Her arms fold. “I’m staying at the Bachelors’ forever, and seventy K a year covers us comfortably.”
“It is…very weird for you to trust anyone this fast.”
She grins. “Kaleb lets me yell at his brothers. I went to Kyran’s room to get his laundry, and it was on the floor , not in the designated basket. Kaleb said laundry must be in the laundry baskets at the very least . Since I’ll already be checking pockets and sorting colors and folding and putting away, it is not my job to search the nooks and crannies for his brother’s underwear. It’s in the basket, or it is not washed. Basket, or beatings . That’s what he said.”
She’s glowing . And chuckling lowly, maniacally, wickedly .
“Basket or beatings ,” she repeats. “I hunted Kyran down, pointed at his clothing, and said, What is this? Are you five? No. Where’s the basket? That’s right. Two feet over. You missed. Fix it. ” A full evil laugh flutters from her. “Then I watched this grumpy rich boy mutter an apology, bend down, and fold his shirt before setting it lightly on his laundry basket. He folded it, Mae. I love my job.”
I am so glad to hear that.
Um.
Did she say it was Sunday afternoon?
Weary, I blink down at the dress I was making. It’s a simple pink sundress. Cotton. Lined. Sheer, billowing sleeves to help save me from the sun’s deadly cancer ray.
I want it finished so I can wear it to work Monday. Which is tomorrow.
Yawning yet again, I retrieve the fabric and cut the threads before I roll the excess back into my machine.
“Maelin.”
I startle, look back at my sister.
“ Where did you get all this?”
“Zakery bought it for me. You were already asleep when we got back last night. I told you he wanted to draw me in public settings…right?”
“Yes, you told me he was taking you out to lunch at the tea place that you’ve been dying to go to ever since we realized what the little cottage off Main was.”
“Well, after, he took me to Make-It, the craft and fabric store off…whatever road it’s off of.” Good with road names, I am not. “By the big tree I like.”
“Yeah, I know where Make-It is.”
Yeah, well, I know where the tea place is. But she still told me a useless road fact. What even is “Main”? Central town Sunset is a grid pattern. Everything’s numbered until you hit Main . Main should have been a number. It’s confusing.
(And stupid.)
“How much did all of this cost?” she asks, perusing my new collection of toys. “This is nice stuff.”
“One thousand four dollars and twenty-three cents.”
She chokes. “ What? Is that coming out of your paycheck?”
“I don’t have a paycheck. Zakery pays me in cash.” At the end of each day no less. He puts my money in an envelope, thanks me, and sends me off to find Morana so we can head home for dinner. (Where she regales me on the glories of how the Bachelor household has a mop with a bucket that is a salad spinner for the mop head.)
((The first time she couldn’t shut up about it, I asked her when the wedding to her mop would be.))
(((She said I just did not understand her love after Helena forced her to clean ballrooms with this ratty thing she had to hand squeeze.)))
Morana has been talking.
Oops.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“If this isn’t coming out of your cash , what does Zakery expect you to do with all of it? It’s work-related, right? Your closet isn’t big enough for all the clothes you could make. Heck, your room isn’t big enough to even hold all of this.” She throws a hand toward the bed, also covered in fun things. “I’d ask where you slept last night, but I think I already figured that part out.”
Puckering my lips, I continue adding the layer of tulle to the inside of my skirt. I love flouncy clothes. After this, I’ll add the final lining, then I’ll spend the rest of the day hand-sewing on details.
Oh. Yeah. Also, maybe I’ll eat.
Maybe.
I might forget.
(I will absolutely forget.)
“Maelin, did you hear me that time?”
“Mmhm.” I focus on the whir of my lovely sewing machine. It’s such a good girl. Making me all sorts of pretties.
Ooh. I’ve just decided. My ball gown outfit needs gloves. Long, classy, satin gloves. Maybe Zakery can also wear gloves with his outfit. If we’re going as a couple, we’ll have to match.
I need to make his outfit.
I freeze when that thought hits me.
What have I been doing with my brain cells if this very obvious thing is only hitting me now ?
Obviously, if we want to perfectly match, I need to make his outfit, too.
I’m an idiot.
An idiot .
I need to tell Zakery and get him measured and figure out a design… I can sketch options for him to pick from. Once I finish adding the tulle layer, I twist. Where’s my sketchbook? I need my sketchbook.
“You are impossible to talk to when you’re sewing,” Morana says.
I blink up at her. “Were you talking to me again?”
“No. Only saying that your relationship with that machine is illicit. And you should get a room.”
“I am in my room. Maybe you should get out of it and leave us in peace.” I hope my sketchbook isn’t lost under a mound of fabric. “Also, sewing machine is to me as mop is to you. We’re getting married next spring. Because we aren’t indecisive.” I flick my tongue out at her as I locate my sketchbook stuffed into an overflowing cubby on the other side of my room.
“If I make ravioli, will you eat lunch?” she asks as I’m hobbling toward my precious. (I may have kicked my bedpost when I fumbled out of my chair.)
I brighten. “Ravioli?”
“Okay. I’m gonna make ravioli, then. Please sleep in your bed tonight. And start telling your laundry clients that you’re resigning when they come by later to pick up. With all this nonsense, you could open a dress boutique if you stop modeling for Zakery—and then that can be our fallback.” She mutters something else to herself as she leaves my room, but I can’t make it out, and it doesn’t matter, anyway.
Because I’ve secured my notebook, opened to a fresh page, and started sketching outfits suitable for a prince.