Chapter 6 #2
Maceo raises one dark eyebrow with obvious amusement. “I’ll definitely take that as a victory. Now, I actually came here for a specific reason.”
He explains that the alternator was indeed the culprit behind my car troubles, just as he’d suspected.
It was a relatively straightforward fix that took him less than an hour to complete properly.
My car is already parked safely back at Thorne Manor.
He wanders slowly around the shop, his practiced eye taking in details I probably haven’t even noticed yet.
When I ask what I owe him for the repair work, he waves off the question with casual dismissal.
“Don’t even worry about it,” he says, turning to face me again with that easy confidence I’m beginning to recognize.
I know I shouldn’t pick this particular moment to get overwhelmed by the mounting pile of kindnesses people keep showing me, but I can feel myself spiraling toward dangerous ‘this is all way too much’ territory.
“If I can’t pay you properly,” I blurt out, grasping for something, anything, I might be able to control in this situation, “then I can at least cook dinner for you.”
I haven’t eaten since this morning, now that I think about it, but the realization barely registers with everything else I’ve faced today.
His appealing grin widens appreciatively. “Well, I can definitely eat.”
“Okay then.” I nod decisively, then immediately start turning in a confused circle like I’ve forgotten how basic human interaction works.
“Clearly, you are in desperate need of immediate assistance, Keisha. Please retrieve your bag and close the shop properly. This painful display hurts to watch.” Sir’s voice carries distinct notes of feline exasperation.
I stop mid-spin and give the cat a pointed side-eye, then blink myself forcibly out of my ridiculous stupor. When I look back at Maceo, the man is watching me with the biggest, most genuinely entertained smile I’ve ever seen. I definitely don’t want to know what I must look like to him right now.
“I’m going to get my bag so we can leave,” I manage to fumble out with some semblance of dignity.
“I’ll be right here waiting,” he replies with a warm chuckle that makes my stomach do unnecessary things.
Oh Lord, Keisha. Please get yourself together before you embarrass yourself further.
I lock up the shop with hands that are steadier than I expected, and before I close the door, Sir steps decisively onto the cobblestone pavement.
“You’re actually leaving the shop?” I ask him mentally, surprised by this development.
“I have been confined to those four walls for far too long,” he replies with unmistakable determination. “The manor awaits my return, and there are things there that require my attention, like treats and pampering.”
I don’t question his reasoning further. After everything I’ve learned today about the true scope of Thorne family responsibilities, questioning Sir’s decisions seems like the fastest way to prove I’m not ready for any of this. So, if he needs self-care, then who am I to deny him.
We walk toward the local grocery store cheerfully named ‘The Grass Is Greener’ with an easy familiarity that genuinely surprises me.
The late afternoon air is crisp and clean, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke from someone’s chimney and the earthy smell of fallen leaves.
I predictably overbuy, my cart filling with enough ingredients to feed a small army rather than two people.
Maceo carries the heavier bags without comment or complaint, his natural helpfulness so ingrained it seems unconscious.
When a car passes too close to the curb, he shifts subtly but decisively so that his solid frame blocks me from the street. He doesn’t appear to notice he’s done it, the protective gesture as natural as breathing. Yep, I can’t help my swoon.
People wave in passing as we make our way through the charming downtown area, their faces lighting up with genuine recognition.
Children pause mid-stride to stare openly with the unashamed curiosity of youth, while their parents smile at me with something bright and hopeful dancing in their expressions.
Everyone seems genuinely happy to see me, as if my presence here means something significant to them personally.
“This feeling is never going to get old,” I murmur, still amazed by the warmth of their reception.
“What feeling?” Maceo asks, adjusting his grip on the grocery bags.
“The way they look at me,” I reply, watching an elderly woman wave enthusiastically from her front porch. “Like I’m someone who matters.”
He considers that observation carefully. “You mean with hope?”
“Hope for what exactly?” I ask with genuine curiosity.
He shakes his head with a mysterious smile. “In time, you’ll understand what you represent to this place.”
I stay quiet the rest of the short walk, my mind churning as I try to wrap my head around what it all truly means.
The weight of expectation from an entire community, the way their eyes hold such reverence when they look at me, as if I’m some kind of answer to prayers I don’t even understand.
The responsibility feels enormous, pressing down on my shoulders with each step we take toward the manor.
My old insecurities whisper their familiar refrains, that I’m not enough, that I’ll disappoint them all, that whatever they’re hoping for from me is bound to end in failure.
The same voice that’s always told me I’m a dud, that something fundamental is missing from who I’m supposed to be.
How can I be what they need when I’ve never even figured out what I am?
As we climb the familiar stone steps, I force myself to push those spiraling thoughts aside for now.
There’s nothing I can do about their expectations at this moment, nothing I can solve by overthinking it all.
Right now, there are groceries to put away and dinner to cook, simple tasks that ground me in the present rather than drowning me in the overwhelming magnitude of whatever destiny apparently awaits.
The manor’s front door opens smoothly when we reach it.
No dramatic fanfare or magical feast materializes to greet us.
The house is clearly letting me take the lead here, and I’m profoundly grateful for its restrained welcome.
I need the manor to just be a house right now, and of course it obliges my unspoken request with perfect understanding.
The calming, meditative effect of cooking takes hold of me immediately.
Maceo helps without being asked, efficiently putting away groceries and setting out ingredients with the ease of someone comfortable in kitchens.
Just me working with my own hands, creating something nourishing and real.
Fresh pasta water comes to a rolling boil.
Garlic and herbs brown gently in olive oil, filling the kitchen with mouth-watering aromas.
A simple green salad gets tossed with bright lemon juice and the good olive oil I splurged on.
Sir observes the entire operation from his spot on the marble counter, looking like a supervisor reviewing kitchen technique. A small plate of premium tuna appears beside him, clearly courtesy of the house’s continued hospitality.
When I turn around to set the dining room table, I discover four place settings waiting instead of the eight elaborate settings that appeared yesterday.
I smile despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach.
This thoughtful house continues to surprise me.
Thank God I’ve never learned how to cook for fewer than six people.
The expected knock comes just as I’m wiping my hands clean on a dish towel.
I catch Maceo’s eye and he shrugs with exaggerated innocence, as if he has absolutely no idea who could possibly be knocking at this particular hour.
I roll my eyes dramatically, making him laugh out loud.
The rich sound rings through the spacious kitchen as I abandon him to answer the door.
I open the heavy front door to find Lucien standing on the porch with a bottle of deep red wine cradled carefully in one elegant hand.
He’s changed from his earlier attire into something that looks like it stepped off a fashion magazine cover, a perfectly tailored charcoal jacket over dark jeans that probably cost an ungodly amount.
I smirk as I lean my weight against the door frame.
“I assumed you would require something suitable to accompany dinner,” he says with smooth confidence.
His attention shifts over my shoulder toward the sound of Maceo moving around in the kitchen. “Ah. I see I am not the first to arrive.”
Maceo’s voice carries from behind me as he makes his way toward us. “You snooze, you lose, Luce.”
“Oh please, you two aren’t fooling anybody here,” I say with growing amusement. “Wolfie sent out a clear S.O.S. signal and you came running like he knew you would.”
Both men arrange their faces into expressions of wounded innocence that wouldn’t fool a child.
Lucien steps inside, moving close enough that I catch the faint scent of something clean and woodsy clinging to his skin. His perceptive eyes drop to focus on my cheek with sudden attention.
“You’ve missed a spot,” he says quietly.
Before I can ask what he means, his thumb brushes with careful gentleness along my skin, wiping away a streak of sauce I must have acquired during my cooking frenzy.
His warm hand lingers against my face for a fraction longer than the task requires, his touch sending unexpected shivers down my spine.
He doesn’t apologize for the intimate gesture or offer any flirty explanation. He simply steps back when he’s finished, entirely unrepentant.
Then the man slowly licks the sauce from his thumb, and oh sweet baby Jesus. Let’s just say I’m grateful Maceo is standing solidly behind me, because I think my knees might actually give out from how devastatingly sexy such a simple gesture can be.
“Okay then. Well, dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” I manage to say, making a hasty strategic retreat back toward the safety of the kitchen. Maceo’s knowing laugh follows my undignified escape.
The second knock comes precisely when I expect it, though my pulse still jumps at the sound. I take several deep breaths to compose myself before walking back toward the front entrance.
Ezra stands on the porch, slightly breathless though he’s clearly making an effort to mask it. His expression is carefully composed behind his black-rimmed glasses, but there’s something intensely focused burning in his dark brown eyes that makes my stomach flutter.
“I hope I’m not intruding on anything,” he says with formal politeness.
“You’re absolutely not intruding. Please come in,” I say, sweeping my arm inward in genuine welcome.
As he steps across the threshold, his large hand finds the small of my back to guide me forward into the house. The touch is warm, sure, and completely intentional. He maintains the gentle contact for exactly one beat before withdrawing with what seems like reluctance.
Clearing his throat, he extends his hand toward the interior with careful courtesy. “After you.”
Okay, I’m definitely not going to read into any of these interactions with the three of them at all.
Absolutely not. I’m certainly not going to dissect every meaningful glance, every casual touch, every loaded pause in conversation.
I’m definitely not going to replay Maceo’s warm laughter in my head or analyze the way Ezra’s hand lingered at my back just a beat longer than strictly necessary or wonder what exactly Lucien sees when he looks at me with those impossibly vibrant eyes.
No, I’m going to be completely rational and level-headed about this entire situation. I’m not going to overthink a single moment of what just happened.
Oh hell, who am I kidding? I’m absolutely going to overthink every single detail of this later.
I can already feel my mind starting to spiral, cataloguing each interaction like evidence in some case I’m building against my own sanity.
There’s definitely going to be some kind of emotional reckoning in my immediate future, either a ridiculous happy dance around my bedroom, or a complete freak out about how complicated my life has suddenly become.
I honestly can’t decide which reaction would be more appropriate.
We gather around the dining room table as the last rays of sunlight paint the walls in shades of gold and amber.
Wine gets poured into crystal glasses. Steaming plates get passed around with easy familiarity.
Conversation begins to layer naturally over the pleasant clink of silverware against china.
Sir maintains his position on the kitchen counter, tail wrapped neatly around his paws as he works his way through a second generous helping of tuna.
Maceo laughs warmly at something clever Ezra says about the auto shop.
He reaches across the table without thinking, fingers brushing briefly over Ezra’s wrist as he steals the last piece of bread from his plate.
Ezra doesn’t even look up, just shifts his glass out of the way with practiced ease.
Lucien lifts his wine glass in quiet acknowledgment, his eyes looking between the two of them with something like amusement.
It’s the kind of easy contact that should mean something, I think. No one reacts like it does.
I glance up to find myself looking straight into Lucien’s mesmerizing eyes. Instead of shying away, I hold it.
He’s not smiling exactly, but there’s a deep certainty written across his handsome features that makes me want to ask a thousand probing questions about what he thinks he sees when he looks at me. Or maybe it’s not just me.
I hold his intense stare and smile back slowly, feeling the way the manor has seamlessly made room for all four of us at this table without any magical ceremony or dramatic fuss. Just quiet acceptance and warmth.
I can’t help but think of how effortless this entire evening has been, or how secure and settled I feel surrounded by all three of these remarkable men. It all feels perfectly right, all of this feels like pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving finally clicking into place.