7. Grace
7
GRACE
I t’s been days—maybe weeks.
I’m losing track of time in this mansion.
Theo’s no help, he’s either locked away in his study, brooding over whatever rich people brood over, or silently glaring at me as if my mere existence is an affront. I can’t stand the tension anymore.
I need to do something. Anything.
It doesn’t help that all I can think about is the mind-blowing sex from the other day and how I want to be climbing that man as much as possible…except for the fact that he acted like I was a leper immediately after.
I need to burn off this energy.
I decide to bake.
The kitchen is massive, industrial even. It has gleaming countertops, an ultramodern oven, more drawers than I could ever need, and enough kitchen gadgets to host a televised cooking show.
It’s a bit intimidating, but I figure it’ll keep me occupied for at least a couple of hours.
How hard can it be, right?
Famous last words.
I rummage through the cupboards, trying to figure out what to make. Cookies seem like a safe bet. Chocolate chip cookies, to be exact. I start pulling out ingredients like I’m on a mission; flour, sugar, eggs, butter, chocolate chips, until the kitchen island is covered in supplies.
I even find this fancy vanilla extract, the kind that probably costs more than my entire grocery budget for the month.
“Alright, Grace,” I mutter to myself. “You’ve got this.”
I’ve never baked cookies from scratch before, but how complicated can it be? The recipe is simple: mix the dry stuff, cream the butter and sugar, add eggs, stir in the chocolate chips, and bake.
Easy.
Except it’s not.
For starters, I can’t find a mixing bowl. I search through drawer after drawer, finding bizarre contraptions that I don’t even know the names of, but no bowls.
Eventually, I find one shoved at the back of a cabinet, but it’s massive . The kind of bowl you’d use if you were making enough dough to feed a small army. I shrug.
“Bigger is better, right?”
I begin throwing the ingredients together, not really measuring because eyeballing is faster. That’s when things start to go awry.
First, I dump the flour into the bowl, and the cloud that rises from it nearly chokes me. I cough, waving my hand in front of my face, but the flour gets everywhere—on my clothes, in my hair, and on the countertops.
I shake my head and keep going, figuring I can clean up later.
Next is the butter. I forgot to soften it, so I throw it in the microwave. But instead of melting it gently, I hit the wrong setting, and it explodes in a buttery mess all over the microwave.
I groan but soldier on, scraping the remnants into the bowl.
By the time I add the eggs, the dough looks... wrong. It’s too wet, and I realize I probably used too much butter. So, I add more flour. But now it’s too dry.
So, I add more milk. It’s a back-and-forth mess, and by the time I’m done, I have this sticky, questionable-looking dough that’s more paste than anything.
I go ahead and spoon globs of it onto a baking tray, popping it into the oven with a silent prayer. At this point, the kitchen looks like a warzone. Flour is smeared across the countertops, there’s a trail of chocolate chips leading to the fridge, and my clothes are covered in dough.
But I’m determined to see this through.
I begin cleaning up. At some point, I start to smell something. Not the sweet, comforting smell of baking cookies, but the distinct scent of burning sugar.
I rush over to the oven and open the door, only to be greeted by a wave of smoke. I forgot to set the timer.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
The cookies are a disaster. They’ve spread out into one giant, gooey blob, bubbling at the edges and burnt in the middle. I grab the nearest kitchen towel and start fanning the smoke away, but it’s too late.
The smoke alarm goes off, its shrill beeping echoing throughout the house.
“Are you kidding me?!”
I rush around in a panic, trying to figure out how to turn it off, when I hear footsteps behind me. Of course, it’s Theo. Because why wouldn’t he show up at the absolute worst moment?
“What the hell is going on in here?” His voice is sharp, but there’s a hint of amusement in his tone.
I whirl around to face him, arms flailing in frustration. “I was trying to bake!”
His gaze shifts from the smoky oven to the mess of flour and dough smeared all over the counters, then back to me. His lips twitch and for a second, I think he’s going to laugh. But he doesn’t.
He’s too much of a control freak for that.
“I can see that,” he says dryly. “You set the oven on fire?”
I glare at him, wiping my flour-covered hands on my already ruined jeans. “I didn’t set it on fire. The cookies just... expanded and dripped and....”
He steps closer, peering into the oven with a raised brow.
“That’s not expanding. That’s a science experiment gone wrong.”
Oh, now he has jokes?
“I know!” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I screwed up, okay? You don’t have to rub it in.”
He stares at me for a long moment, and then, to my complete shock, he smiles. An honest, genuine smile. Not the smirk he usually gives me when he’s being sarcastic, but an actual smile.
“You’re covered in flour,” he points out, his voice lighter now, almost teasing.
I look down at myself and sigh. “Yeah, well... it happens.”
“You look like a four-year-old that got into the flour,” he chuckles. “Was there any left for the cookies?”
There’s a beat of silence, and then, to my utter surprise, He starts to laugh really hard. It’s not loud or over the top, but it’s enough to make me blink in confusion.
“Are you laughing at me?” I ask, half-offended but also a little pleased.
“I’m not sure what else to do in this situation,” he replies, still chuckling.
“I mean, look at you.
You’ve managed to destroy the kitchen, set off the smoke alarm, and cover yourself in flour, all in the span of, what, twenty minutes?”
I can’t help it; I start laughing too. Maybe it’s the absurdity of the whole situation, or perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve been so desperate to break the ice between us, but I laugh until my stomach hurts.
“You should’ve seen the explosion in the microwave,” I say between fits of giggles.
“Explosion?”
“Yeah, the butter... it didn’t survive.”
He shakes his head, still grinning. “You’re a disaster.”
“I know.” I wipe at my eyes, my laughter dying down to a smile. “But hey, I’m a disaster with good intentions.”
“Good intentions don’t clean kitchens,” he retorts, though there’s no real bite in his words. “You do realize you’ll have to clean all of this up, right?”
I groan. “Don’t remind me.”
He crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter, still watching me with that amused expression.
“You know, for someone who’s clearly never baked before, you’ve managed to make quite an impression.”
“Is that your way of saying I’m talented?” I ask, grinning at him.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He straightens up, glancing around the kitchen once more before his gaze lands on me again. “But you did accomplish one thing.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“You made me laugh.”
The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard, and I don’t know how to respond. A warm flush creeps up my neck, and I feel a strange sense of accomplishment. I made him laugh.
“Well,” I say, smiling a little wider, “I guess that’s something.”
“It is,” he agrees softly. “I needed it.”
We stand there for a moment, the tension between us shifting into something lighter, something almost... comfortable. It’s the first time since I arrived that I feel like maybe we can get along.
Or at least, not actively hate each other.
“I’ll help you clean up,” he says suddenly, pushing off the counter and moving toward the sink.
I blink in surprise. “You will?”
“Don’t look so shocked,” he says with a smirk. “I’d rather not have you set off the smoke alarm again.”
“Fair enough.” I laugh, grabbing a dish rag and starting to wipe down the flour-covered counters.
As we work together to clean up the mess, I catch glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye. He’s still the same guy, but there’s something different now—something softer.
Maybe it’s the laughter, or perhaps it’s the fact that we’re actually talking like normal human beings for once, but I feel like we’ve crossed some kind of invisible line.
This is what he was like the first time we met.
By the time we’re done, the kitchen is spotless, and the smoky smell from the burnt cookies has faded. I lean against the counter, exhausted but strangely content.
“Well,” I say, “that was a disaster.”
“A memorable one, at least.”
I glance at him, feeling a slight smile tug at my lips. “Thanks for helping me.”
He shrugs. “Don’t get used to it.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
And just like that, he walks out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there, surrounded by the remnants of my baking disaster. I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I glance around the room.
The kitchen may be clean now, but the air still smells faintly of burnt sugar. I missed a small smear of flour on the edge of the countertop. I wipe it away with the dish towel, my thoughts drifting to Theo as I do.
I made him laugh.
I’m not sure why that feels like such a victory, but it does. For the first time since I arrived here, I feel like we’re not just coexisting in this strange bubble of awkward tension and unspoken resentment.
I mean, we still are, but... it’s different now. There’s a crack in his armor, a small one, but a crack, nonetheless.
I smile to myself, the warmth from earlier still lingering in my chest. Maybe this place isn’t so bad after all.
As I finish cleaning the last of the mess, I realize something else: I like making him laugh. It’s strange, but there’s a satisfaction in seeing him drop that cold, distant exterior. Maybe I’ll try to do it again.
He didn’t say one thing about fucking my brains out though.
I’d really like him to do that again, too.