Chapter 7 Samantha
SAMANTHA
I awake in Grumpy’s childhood bedroom, and I slept better than I probably should have. It feels weird, considering Grumpy grew up in the same bed. Very weird.
Especially as that he’d made me come like I’ve never come in my life.
The combination has me confused as I limp to the window in his shirt and my panties. Again, what the heck!
Looking around, I notice someone has brought my bags in from the car. It must have been after I had the hot tea and fell asleep last night.
Someone has placed them just inside my room, and now there is a tray with hot tea options, a silver pot of coffee, and another silver pot of hot water. Also, fancy cups and saucers.
I find the colorful robe I always have in my travel bag. The one I bought from a cool Parisian market. As I pull it on, I shed Grumpy’s shirt and pour coffee.
Looking at the many books and photos on the wall, I notice some are of him racing yachts, skiing competitively, and playing tennis.
Also, more of him and the tiger, but in most of them, the tiger is a young cub. Harrison always looks serious in the photos. Always focused and cold. Always gorgeous.
Watching the sunrise over the lake from the chateau with coffee in my hand calms me.
I am about to check my wound when there is a knock at the door. I hobble to it and open it to find the old gentleman, William.
“Ahhh, good morning, Samantha,” he says in his impeccable British accent.
“Good morning, Sir.”
“Please, call me William.”
“Of course,” I say. “Please, come in,” I say, ushering him inside.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Again, William is dressed in a conservative suit and tie. He walks in, and we head to the large windows.
I thank him for bringing in my bags, but he explains he had not. He then says, “It must have been Master Harry.”
I’m confused who that is until I realize he means the grump, Grumpy, or Harrison.
I decide I should try and mend things with him, unless I want to drive all the way back to LA broke. I think of my possessive and toxic ex back in LA, and I feel ill.
“Look, can you please thank him for me?” I ask.
“Well, he doesn’t like to be distracted. Or interrupted.”
We share a look, and it appears William wants to explain. “The thing is, he works very hard, and I don’t see him often.”
That’s weird. But so is he.
“But if you like, you can thank him yourself.”
“How?” I ask, confused. “If he’s such a weird recluse? I mean, recluse.”
William walks to a strange old brass pipe system in a corner of the room. It has a bell next to it and a cable.
William points to the brass tube, bell, and small writing pad. He then explains the old-fashioned message system. That in the day, and before phones, people would send messages in the chateau using them.
That all you need to do is write a message on the small fancy card, then stick it in one of the small tubes and push the lever.
It would then woosh away and be sent in the pipe to another room, using a vacuum system thing. After, you pull the cable in your room, a bell would then ring, informing the second party a message is at the end of their tube.
I smile as I realize it is cute and clever. Like old-fashioned messaging or texting.
“So, just write a message, switch this, and ring the bell?”
William nods, and I shrug, deciding to try it later.
William then rounds on me. “Now, dear. It sounds like there was some confusion regarding your employment.”
Here we go.
“But while you are here, and while you can’t leave—”
“Why can’t I leave?” I say in panic.
“Well, the storm has taken out two of the bridges, and your car needs attention.”
“Ahh,” I say as thunder rumbles.
“Now, if your leg is fine.”
“And it is,” I say, not wincing too much now. “I may as well work?”
“Only if you later feel like it,” he says.
“That would be nice,” I say. “I do adore being a chef.”
“Splendid,” William says, “and it will buy us time to work out this… ahhh, confusion.”
I nod and beam. “Sounds wise.”
William and I sit, and I make him tea. He then explains I should communicate directly with Grumpy and ask him what he wishes to eat, where, and when.
William also says he will show me the kitchen after I shower or bath.
Once William leaves, I shower in the weird old private bathroom and decide to send Grumpy a message.
After a few attempts, I write carefully and nicely, and send:
Thank you for the bags and teas. It is I, the woman, Sam. PS If the master is hungry, please advise.
Twenty minutes later, I don’t have an answer.
I decide to send another, so I send:
Re you being hungry. I didn’t mean like ‘that.’ I meant food.
Another twenty minutes go by, and still nothing.
I suspect there is a rat in the pipe eating my messages, or they are not getting through. I am about to head off and remedy things when my own little bell rings on its copper cable.
I walk over to the pipe. I pull out a card and read.
Thank you for clarifying.
I relax some, even if the message is cold and impersonal. At least it had worked.
I hang a few things to dry in the bathroom and hobble down to the grand old kitchen. I
get a feel for it and the massive old pantry, not needing to interrupt, charming old William. It is extremely well-stocked, and even if ancient, it is oddly very fancy.
William appears and he walks me through a few things that I had not found. An hour later, I am back in my room.
As I look for a few favorite recipes in my notepad, my bell rings. I read the card, and again, it is another impersonal note, as if written by a robot.
May I have poached eggs and toast in the room next to kitchen at 10.00?
I check the time, quickly write back, and send.
As the good Sir commands.
I bite my lip and remember how his clean shirt had felt against my nipples last night in bed.
Realizing I am forgetting my place, I quickly get my recipe pad.
I step over an envelope William must have slipped under my door and decide to check it later.
First, I must understand the systems and feed Master Harry, aka cold Grumpy, his breakfast.
Pausing at my door, I notice clothes that have been delivered to my room. I move fast, not wanting to mess the job up much more, and I walk carefully down to the kitchen.
My leg hurts, but it’s the last thing I want anyone to know.
I decide to make Grumpy’s breakfast extra fancy. He can ask for simple, but I can deliver that, and more.
I prepare what he requested, but I also poach salmon on another plate before I add two rare French-style sauce options. I also create a rare walnut and pesto number.
I learned to prepare something similar in Rome, but this is all me.
I drizzle it around the dish, and finally, I shave different types of cheese and lay them around as if creating a piece of art.
It is a simple yet exquisite dish, like I did in London in the day. To devour it is like coming from the mouth.
After setting what I assume is the correct small table in the sun, and at exactly the time we’d agreed, I walk out with the simple breakfast.
I also have my amazing dish on the other side of the large silver tray. Naturally, I have a starched white napkin over my arm.
Grumpy is sitting in a black suit today, reading a newspaper in the sun. We avoid each other’s eyes, and I leave the food in silence.
It is odd, considering what we’ve been through, but I force myself to rise to the occasion and contain my actions.
Ten minutes later, a small bell rings. I figure it’s for me, so I walk out to serve my wicked master.
“Thank you, the poached eggs were good.”
I pause; he has not touched the other dish. He flicks the newspaper as if he is going to read on, and the conversation is over.
“You did not try the other,” I note stupidly.
“No, thank you. I know what I like and need.”
I go to take it away, but I pause. Even if I know I should keep my mouth shut, I can’t. I can’t because I have no discipline.
“Does the master not like trying new things in life?”
Grumpy lowers his paper, but he raises a brow, intrigued. “The master is not fixed in his ways; he just has systems.”
I mess up big time because I snort. The master then huffs and shakes his head. “Okay then, I’ll try it. Just to prove my point!”
I cross my arms and watch the cold bastard below me. I am intrigued.
Grumpy takes a classy silver fork and looks up at me. I laser-eye him while wearing my black rock and roll T-shirt, black jeans with ripped knees, and my white Converse.
Grumpy takes some of the salmon, a little of both sauces, plus some of the cheese. He places it in his mouth as if bored and clearly not expecting anything.
I watch his face change fast. As a chef, I’ve watched people’s faces try dishes around the world. I have seen over a thousand dishes tested on people.
First, the edge of an eye twitches. I then see his cheek budge out ever so slightly. That means his tongue is swirling around the flavor. And bam, there it is. His taste buds are ignited, and saliva flows.
Grumpy’s eyes then close!
He opens them, looking back at me. Our eyes meet, and I go to take his fork. He whips it away. “Thank you, but I’ve not finished.”
Smiling wickedly, I take the used poached egg dish. I then feel his eyes on me as I walk away.
Ten minutes later, as I am cleaning up, the annoying bell rings again. As I walk back in, Grumpy shakes the newspaper closed. “That was rather good, Chef. Does it have a name?”
“Not yet, it is custom.”
Grumpy stares at me. He doesn’t like it. “So, let me get this right. No one else can deliver it if I, say, want it again?”
“That’s right,” I say, hands on my hips but not pushing it too far.
We stare each other out, then he quickly stands, ending up inches from my lips. “Well, I’d like it again tomorrow.”
“As you wish,” I say, smirking.
As the grump is halfway towards the door, he turns. “Oh, one last thing.”
“Yes?”
“You are expected to wear a uniform.”
“You are kidding, right?”
“No, I am not kidding, Miss...”
“Miss Samantha.”
“Miss Samantha.”
I walk up to him with the empty plate, and I say low, “Okay, fussy.”
“I just like things the way I do.”
“Sure, fussy.” I head for the kitchen door, but I pause and turn. “Oh, sorry, what would the Master like to eat tonight?”
Grumpy is putting on his jacket when I stupidly drop, “Food, just to clarify.” He is thinking when I cut in fast, “How about a surprise?”
“I dislike surprises, Chef.”
“Yes, I can see that,” I say before I can keep my trap shut.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say, as he walks closer.
I lift my chin as he looks down on me. My heart pounds, and I dislike being his subordinate.
“Okay then, let’s see if you can surprise me, little one.”
I turn to back into the kitchen door with the dish in hand, but I pause. “Oh, one last thing.”
“This should be good,” Grumpy says, heading for the other door.
“Will Master Harry always be grumpy, cold, and commanding?”
We share a look, and he looks intrigued. “Just grumpy and cold, Miss. No more commanding.”
“Interesting,” I say, walking towards him.
“For the record, I think you have a brother. A brother who is amazing. Either that, or there is a chance you are schizo. The other guy… he was one hell of a man. Amazing. Classy. And well, kind of perfect. Just saying.”
Grumpy looks offended and confused.
He folds the newspaper and taps his hand with it. “Yes, well, we don’t always get what we want in life, do we? If it was too easy, one would become weak.”
That has me, and the best I can come up with is, “Thank you for the education, good Sir. Will that be all?” I say it defiantly, and he steps closer to me with his folded newspaper.
I am angry but also turned on. I hate my body for wanting him. Every darned inch of him.
The bastard then does the unspeakable and he lifts my defiant chin with the newspaper.
Our eyes hold, and then the smug bastard says, “Now, you may go,”
I turn and walk away. And as I do, I swish my butt. Inside the kitchen, I place the dish down and look back. Grumpy is checking me out through the swinging doors. I flick my head a little, and my hair flies. The smug arrogant bastard.