Chapter Thirteen
Alisha
As I step through the front door, the weight of the evening settles upon me like an invisible cloak made of thick, heavy metal, while the memories of our kiss and the taste of him on my lips still lingers.
I touch my fingers to my lips, stunned that they’re still tingling from his kiss. The mere thought is enough to bring all of that sensation and emotion flooding back like a tsunami.
If I close my eyes, I can remember every second of the kiss and the way time had slowed to a near standstill. The intoxicating taste of him, the possessive quality of his kiss, the way he seemed to take up all the space in the passenger seat even though I occupied the same space still clings to my thoughts. And that thing he'd done where he put his hand on the back of my neck... I shiver as I close the door behind me.
My mother's voice cuts through my busy thoughts, and I jerk my hand from my face, hoping she can’t interpret that gesture. “I'm surprised you came home tonight,” she says, a knowing wink accompanying her comment.
My cheeks overheat as I take off the necklace and set it on the little table by the front door.
“Did the date not go well?” I understand why she's prying; she no doubt wants to know everything that happened, but I'm not in the mood to talk about how things went.
I offer a feeble smile and a thumbs up in a half-hearted attempt to deflect her curiosity. Of course, I know that alone won't work, so instead I divert the conversation toward a different subject. “I made a new friend!” I know it's a flimsy attempt at best, but hopefully it's enough to steer her attention away from Charles, my date, and how the night went.
“I'm so glad you made a new friend, but I'm a lot more interested in hearing about how the date went.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. There's no way she's going to let me get away without giving her some details.
I walk over and step aside from the couch, perching on the edge, very aware of my dress. “He’s a really nice guy.” I'm not sure what else I can safely say. My phone chimes and I more than welcome the interruption. I pull the device out of my clutch and check to see who messaged me, hoping that it's Charles.
To my surprise, the message is from Laurel. Thank you for coming to our party and for being amazing. Let’s get together soon!
My mom's expectant look makes me sigh. “It's not him. It's the new friend I was telling you about.”
“The fact that you don't want to talk about it tells me how important this is to you.” She pats my hand and I glance at her. “Just tell me you had a good time and I won't ask anything else.”
“I had a good time.” The completely honest words leave me, and I smile at the thought of Charles and Laurel. Then Methew crosses my mind and my joy fades. The thought of spending time with him on Saturday and telling him the truth that I've been hiding for years is not a pleasant one, and my stomach twists as if I'm about to throw up.
“I'll leave you be then, but if you want to talk, I'm here.” With that, she stands up and heads toward the front door, but turns at the last moment. “I'll be here bright and early in the morning. I love you and goodnight.”
I manage a smile and nod my head in thanks, my thoughts still centered on Methew. I don't want to think about him or the potential unpleasantness I’ll have to face on Saturday, so I try to shove him out of my thoughts as the door closes behind my mom.
Instead, I decide to focus on the things that bring me joy, and one of the biggest things that brings me joy is my daughter in the other room. With light feet I make my way into my bedroom and change out of the dress, leaving the beautiful garment spread out at the foot of my bed because I know I won’t be sleeping in here tonight.
Changing into my pajamas, I hurry up and brush my teeth, going through my nightly ritual before making my way toward my daughter's room. Her jellyfish night light illuminates the room, giving me just enough light to see as I make my way toward her bed.
The soft glow of moonlight cascading through the window reveals her peaceful face with soft curls framing her chubby cheeks. Once again, I'm struck by her impossibly long eyelashes, and I simply admire her for a few moments before climbing into bed beside her.
She twitches slightly, clearly lost to innocent dreams. I think about my delicate situation as a single mother longing for companionship, even though I've never wanted to date before. Now that Charles is in my life, I want to take that leap. But if I make that decision, will it jeopardize my job, my livelihood, the money that I'm making to support my daughter? What if he's unhappy to find out that I'm a single mother since I've been hiding the truth from him?
And what happens if our relationship goes terribly and he casts me aside, firing me in the process?
I don't want to think about the mad scramble to try to find another job so that I can afford to pay the bills. And there's no way I'd find another job that pays as well as he does. So I have to ask myself if the risk of things ending badly is worth the risk of losing the financial stability working as his cook offers.
I snuggle in closer to my daughter, her steady breathing lulling my body into a relaxed state as I begin to drift off.
The next morning I make my way into work, but he doesn't come into the kitchen to say good morning to me like he does most days, which leaves me a little bit concerned. My heart sinks like a stone toward my shoes as I begin to stress about what this means. Maybe our kiss and maybe my refusal to stay the night did some damage to our working relationship.
I leave the kitchen and begin to wander around his home. I feel very strange walking around his home as if I belong; instead, I feel like I’m intruding.
In the living room, I find him lying on the couch, a streaming service on the TV. He's covered with a blanket and looks ashen and uncomfortable.
“Hey, is everything okay?” I can't help but be worried about him as his gaze slides toward me. His eyes seem sunken in and listless, and his skin seems red, like he’s blazing with fever.
He offers me a tired smile. “Good morning. I think I might be sick.”
I kneel down by his side. “Did you take any medication?”
He shakes his head no and I'm not surprised. He seems like the kind of stubborn person who wouldn't take medication when he didn’t feel well. Holding back a sigh I open my purse and take out a bottle of Acetaminophen and offer him two. They’ll help bring down the fever and help him feel better.
He accepts the pills with a soft thanks, and I pick up the water on the table beside the couch and offer the glass to him. He takes the glass and washes down the medication with a quick gulp.
“I don’t pay you enough for you to take care of me while I’m sick.” He studies me with those steely gray eyes, and I smile.
“Well, if your humor is back, then clearly you're feeling better.”
He gives a slight chuckle, and I quickly change my game plan for meals today. I'm not sure he'd be up for what I had planned, but as luck would have it, I did put a whole chicken in the fridge that will now boil down nicely into some bone broth.
“I'm going to go get started on food.” I stand up and take a step toward the kitchen, but he grabs my wrist and I stop, looking down at him.
“I don't know that I can eat anything.”
“Have a little faith in me.” But I don’t want him to let me go. The spot he’s touching warms up and tingling heat races up my arm and circulates down through my fingers. And the way he’s looking at me, as if ferreting out the secrets of my soul...
“Thank you,” he says, then relaxes back, letting me go.
“Of course,” I say before making my way into the kitchen to get started on his healthy comfort meals for the day.
Once in the kitchen, I begin gathering my ingredients, taking the chicken out of the fridge and taking several carrots, some celery, an onion, and various seasonings and putting them in an electric pressure pot. This will shorten the cook time to three hours with no noticeable dip in quality, and time is of the essence.
Once that's all cooking, I set some water to boil while gathering basil, lime, fresh ginger, cardamom, honey, and a few other ingredients to make a soothing tea that’ll help boost his immune system and soothe his throat, as well as get some liquid in him for hydration.
Next on my list, I prep a spinach and artichoke dish with quick hands, loving that I’m going to offer him one of my go-to sick day comfort foods - a spinach and artichoke grilled cheese that’ll go amazingly well with his bone broth in a few hours.
As I work around the kitchen, I realize I'm not just cooking because it's my job and I'm paid to be here. I'm worried about Charles and I want to make sure that he feels his best. The best way I know how to do that is by making sure that he’s eating well.
And sure, I know I'm not paid to be a nurse for him, but I do know that he pays me very well, is very flexible, has been kind to me, and I’m grateful for him and every opportunity he’s afforded me, even if he was a pain in my backside in the beginning.
All I have to do is remind myself of the conversation I had with his mother and know that he's been through a heartbreak, and I don't feel so angry about his behavior in the beginning. Trauma made him an unhealthy eater, but I think he's broken that habit with my help. And now he’s the best boss a girl could hope for.
Of course, I’d love a deeper relationship with him than just boss and worker, but I still don’t think I can risk everything, even on something that feels right.
Because what happens when everything falls through?
As soon as the tea is ready, I carry the hot mug I’d chosen to use out to him. Before I even reach his side, I hear him sniff appreciatively.
“Whatever it is, it smells amazing. I take back that I can't eat anything.” I can tell the medicine has already kicked in by the way he's speaking - he sounds more like his usual self.
“That's just too bad, because it isn't food. It's tea. I do have food planned for you. Are you hungry now? Or would you like to wait?” I already have homemade chicken stock that I've prepared, which won't be as good as the bone broth, but it will still get some calories in him and pair nicely with the grilled cheese I plan to make.
His brow furrows as he thinks for a moment, and I place the tea on the table next to him, watching the little curls of steam rise up toward the ceiling. But then he nods his head, and his gaze ticks to mine. “I think I'd like to try to eat something; I do feel much better. Thank you.”
I nod my head, ready to tell him to make sure he drinks the tea, but he picks up the cup before I can open my mouth and brings it to his face, inhaling the steam and letting out a sigh of pleasure that sends goose bumps up and down my arms. Inappropriate thoughts race through my mind and I make a quick escape to the kitchen, my heart pounding.
I’ve never wanted a man to inhale my scent like that and give such a satisfied sigh. Maybe that’s weird. Is that weird? I’m not sure, but I want that. I want him. And I have no business wanting him.
It takes a moment to clear my mind and remind myself what I was going to make for him. As soon as I get back on track, I fall into autopilot, heating up the broth I’d made, grabbing bread, cheeses, and the spinach artichoke dip I’d prepared.
As the whole meal comes together, I’m careful to keep my thoughts away from him. The last thing I need is to be preoccupied and potentially injure myself or mess up the food while cooking. When the broth and grilled cheese are ready to go, I load them up on the tray and bring them out to him on the couch.
He sits upright and gives me an almost guilty look. “I can go sit at the table.”
I lift both shoulders not caring one way or another. “Or you can stay right here and be comfortable. It doesn't matter to me. The only thing that matters is that you get to feeling better.” It doesn't make a difference to me if he's eating in here or eating at the table because I'm just here to make food, serve him delicious dishes, and take pride in his reactions to everything I make. Because he loves everything I put in front of him, that does good things for my soul beyond a paycheck.
Don't get me wrong, getting paid is nice, but knowing that he's appreciative of everything I make and that he loves my cooking offers me a satisfaction that money can’t.
He smiles as I place the tray on the seat beside him. “Do you have foldable trays?” I ask and he shakes his head.
“I could put it on the table next to you if I move a few things,” I say, nodding at the table with a lamp, his water, and the empty tea mug.
“Let me help,” he says, standing up. And for the first time, I realize he’s in gray sweatpants and my heart nearly stops beating in my chest as I see the outline of him.
He catches my look, glances down, then looks back at me, a twinkle in his eyes. I clear my throat and look away, embarrassed. My boss just caught me checking out his, erm, package . How embarrassing.