11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Cole
The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels alive.
The faint hum of the refrigerator fills the kitchen, and my shoes make no sound on the cool tile floor. I pull open the fridge and scan the shelves, the light casting a pale glow over the polished surfaces. Evelyn always preps extra meals for me in case I miss dinner, which is often. Tonight is no exception.
I grab a container labeled in Evelyn’s neat handwriting—lemon herb chicken with roasted vegetables. I set it on the counter, my movements slow and deliberate. The weight of the day still on my shoulders, but it’s not work that’s eating at me tonight.
It’s Annie.
I don’t know why I can’t get her out of my damn mind, even though I haven’t seen her all week.
I can’t stop replaying the moment from last week, the way she’d kissed me back before abruptly pulling away. The confusion in her eyes, the way she bolted out of my room without a word. It’s been days, and I still haven’t figured out what the hell I was thinking—or why she stopped so suddenly.
I have my theories, but nothing confirmed.
I dig through a drawer for a fork, pulling it open with a bit more force than necessary. The sound of the drawer sliding shut echoes in the empty kitchen. I stab a piece of chicken and take a bite straight from the container, too hungry to bother heating it up.
The kitchen door creaks open, and I glance up, startled. Annie steps in, her hair loose around her shoulders and her expression tired but guarded. She’s wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants and a plain T-shirt, her usual polished appearance replaced by something softer and more vulnerable.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her in a week, and she’s no less beautiful. And the guilt is just as strong.
“Sorry,” she says, pausing when she sees me. “I didn’t think anyone would be in here.”
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice low. I set the container down, my appetite suddenly gone.
She hesitates in the doorway, her hand gripping the edge of the frame. “I was just getting some water.”
“Don’t let me stop you.” I gesture toward the sink, and she moves cautiously into the room, like a deer testing the ground for traps.
The silence between us is almost painful, and I know I should say something—anything—to clear the air. But where the hell do I even start?
She reaches for a glass from the cabinet, her movements careful. I watch as she fills it at the sink, the soft trickle of water breaking the stillness.
“I’m sorry,” I say abruptly, the words foreign and odd.
She freezes, the glass halfway to her lips. Slowly, she turns to face me, her brows drawing together in confusion. “For what?”
“For… that night,” I say, my words stumbling over themselves. “For putting you in that position. It was… unprofessional.”
Her expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across her face. “You don’t have to apologize,” she says quietly. “I wasn’t exactly an innocent party in that.”
“I just…” I run a hand through my hair, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable here. Or like you can’t do your job because of what happened.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and she looks down at the glass in her hands. “I don’t feel that way,” she says after a long pause. “Truth be told, I’ve been wondering if you were going to fire me.”
I blink, caught off guard.
“Fire you?” I repeat, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “Why the hell would I do that?”
Annie shrugs, her gaze still fixed on the glass in her hands. “Because it would make things easier for you. No awkwardness, no weird tension.” She lifts the glass to her lips and takes a small sip, her posture defensive. “I know how these things go.”
Her words hit a nerve, sparking an irritation that I try to tamp down. “You think I’d just fire you to avoid a little discomfort?”
She raises her eyes to meet mine, her expression unreadable. “Wouldn’t you?”
The kitchen feels colder, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say. I let out a sharp exhale, leaning against the counter. “No, Annie. I wouldn’t.”
She tilts her head slightly, skepticism written all over her face. “Why not?”
“Because Robbie likes you,” I say simply, the truth laid bare between us. “He trusts you. And he needs someone like that in his life.”
Her lips part slightly, surprise flickering across her face. “Robbie…”
“Robbie,” I interrupt. “This isn’t about me or you. It’s about him. I’m not going to let my… my screw-ups get in the way of what’s best for him.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. She sets the glass down on the counter, her fingers curling around its edge. “He does like me,” she says softly. “I like him, too.”
She studies me for a moment, her blue eyes piercing through the layers of guilt and frustration I’ve been carrying all week. “That night,” she starts, her voice hesitant, “it wasn’t just you. I was—” She stops herself, shaking her head. “I should’ve handled it better. I’m sorry for running out like that.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, almost too quickly. “You don’t owe me an apology.”
“I think I do,” she counters, her tone firm but gentle. “You’ve been nothing but professional with me until… well, until that.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Not exactly a glowing review.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, stepping closer. “I just—look, I don’t regret working here. Robbie is a great kid, and I… I want to be here for him. But that night—”
“Forget that night,” I say, cutting her off. The words come out harsher than I intend, and I immediately regret them. “I mean… let’s not make it into something bigger than it was.”
Her expression tightens, and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing again. “Okay,” she says, her tone clipped. “If that’s how you want it.”
“It is,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “For Robbie’s sake.”
She nods once, her posture stiff as she steps back.
The silence stretches again, but this time it feels less oppressive. I pick up the container of chicken and take another bite, needing something to do with my hands.
“By the way,” she says abruptly, her voice lighter, though it feels forced. “Robbie had a great time at Field Day. In case you were wondering.”
I freeze mid-bite, the words taking a moment to register. “Field Day?”
She frowns, tilting her head. “Yeah, at his school. You didn’t know?”
“No,” I say slowly, setting the container back on the counter. “I didn’t.”
Her brows knit together in concern. “It was on the calendar. I assumed you saw it.”
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face. “I don’t exactly keep track of school events. That’s why I have people to… handle things.”
She doesn’t say anything, but the look on her face speaks volumes.
“What?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend.
“Nothing,” she says quickly, taking a sip of water.
“It’s not nothing,” I press. “Say what you’re thinking.”
She hesitates, clearly debating whether to speak her mind. Finally, she sighs.
“I just think… it would mean a lot to Robbie if you showed up to things like that once in a while. He’s a great kid, but he’s shy. It’s hard for him to make friends, and… I don’t know, maybe seeing you there woul d give him a little extra confidence.”
Guilt twists in my chest, sharp and unrelenting. She’s right, of course. I know she’s right. But hearing it out loud feels like a punch to the gut.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say tightly.
She looks at me for a moment, like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sets her empty glass in the sink and turns to leave.
“Annie,” I call after her.
She stops in the doorway, glancing back at me.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, my voice softer now. “I’m glad Robbie had a good time today. And… thank you. For being there for him.”
Her expression softens, and she offers me a small, tentative smile. “Of course. It’s my job.”
But the way she says it makes me think it’s more than that.
She leaves, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall. I stay in the kitchen, staring at the container of chicken on the counter, my appetite gone.
She’s right. I need to do better—for Robbie, for myself. And maybe, just maybe, for her, too.