Chapter 3
Mariah
I’m almost finished clearing off the final counter in Titus’s kitchen when someone rings the doorbell.
I freeze, uncertain what I should do. I’m not sure what the etiquette is when you’re in someone else’s house.
But Deidre did say Titus rarely comes out of his rooms during the day. And technically, I live here now too.
Wiping off my hands, I go to the entryway. And the pile of shoes littering it. I shoot the mess a glare, scowling at the collection of boots and running shoes, my left eye twitching.
Cleaning the kitchen had to be done. There was no way I could cook in it the way it was. The shoes—and all the other crap piled around—won’t technically get in the way of me doing my job.
But it will drive me absolutely bonkers.
I do my best to ignore the clutter, opening the door and hoping whoever’s on the other side doesn’t judge me for the state of the house.
The man smiling at me from the stoop has on a hat bearing the logo of a national grocery chain and a whole bunch of bags in his hands. “I’ve got your grocery delivery.”
“Thank God.” I’ll have to call Deidre and let her know how grateful I am that she handled this, because I’m exhausted. Going to the store tonight was the last thing I wanted to do. “I’ll take those.”
I collect the bags he’s carrying and take them into the kitchen, then meet him back on the porch. I’m sure he’d carry them inside if I asked, but the thought of anyone seeing this place and assuming I’m the one who let it get like this has heat creeping over my skin.
I have nothing to be embarrassed about, but Titus sure does. When I see him later tonight, I’m going to make sure he knows it too.
Once all the bags are unloaded, the delivery man on his way to his next stop, I start unpacking. I’m barely halfway through the first one before I start to get suspicious.
This seems… odd. The contents aren’t at all what I would expect someone like Deidre Bradshaw to order.
Or anyone who knows how to fry an egg for that matter.
“Seriously?” I scoff when I pull out a pack of ramen noodles and a plastic clamshell pack of donuts.
No way did Deidre order this stuff. There’s nothing wrong with donuts and ramen, but I’m a whole-ass trained chef.
Capable of making freaking amazing shit.
I whipped up a very loose interpretation of a muffuletta sandwich with nothing but a leftover charcuterie board, for God’s sake.
Anyone who knows anything about cooking would have at least ordered the basics.
Olive oil, butter, eggs, chicken, steak, vegetables. Something for me to work with.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I reach a bag that’s nothing but cereal and my head falls back on a groan. I pull in a deep breath, then slowly blow it back out.
I knew this job wasn’t going to live up to my expectations. Nothing does because I’m a freaking Pollyanna wearing rose colored glasses.
But I for sure expected to have access to butter.
“This is fine.” I start opening drawers, in search of something to write with and on. My phone is up in my room and I’m too tired to go get it.
Especially now that I know I don’t have butter.
After rifling through a few spots, I finally come across a notebook and a pen in the room with all the electronics—an office maybe? Flipping to a new page, I start my list, writing the most important item at the top.
Butter
The next hour is spent taking inventory of what I now have, putting it all away, and then coming up with a plan for stocking the pantry and fridge. I’m basically starting fresh, and getting everything I need will cost an arm and a leg, so I’ve got to pace myself—
Wait.
I snort. If he can afford my salary, I’m sure Titus Bradshaw can spare the cash to set me up properly. So instead of just the basics, I make a list of everything I need and everything I want.
Because if I’m going to clean this dude’s house—which I already see happening because it’s making my eye twitch—I’m going to have fun cooking while I do it.
Once I’ve come up with as many items as possible, I tear the page off and set it in a spot where I can grab it on my way out the door in the morning.
Surely by then I’ll have the opportunity to talk with my new boss and figure out how he wants to handle the purchase of ingredients and any tools or appliances I need.
Right?
I assumed Titus would bring his dinner tray down when he was finished working and introduce himself. Instead, he just slid it outside his door, leaving it in the same spot he found it. Which is fine. I’m here to cook, not to socialize.
It’s a little weird that he hasn’t wanted to meet the new chick sleeping a few doors down, but who am I to judge?
I’m sure I’ve been my share of weird. I’ve definitely been my share of stupid.
Plus, my rooms have a lock only I can open, a giant soaking tub with a view of the mountains, and five-hundred thread count sheets, so I’m not going to complain.
Well, not outside of all the complaining I plan to do about the state of the house.
It’s even weirder to me than Titus’s disinterest in making sure I’m not a serial killer. Now that the initial shock of the mess has worn off, I’m having an easier time seeing the house instead of all the crap in it.
The place is gorgeous. Possibly the nicest house I’ve ever been in outside of Deidre’s.
Once I opened the curtains and blinds, I discovered every room has a stunning view.
All the finishes are high-end and expensive, and the main kitchen appliances are top of the line.
The walk-in pantry is spacious enough I could live in it, and the formal dining room is big enough to hold a table for twenty.
In short, the place could be freaking gorgeous if someone would give it a little attention. And if today is anything to go by, I might be the only one making regular use of the common areas of the house. Might as well get it a way I’m comfortable with.
If Titus doesn’t like it, he can come out of his rooms and tell me. At least then I’ll have someone to talk to for a minute. Until then, I’m going to enjoy the peace and quiet.
And holy cow is it quiet here.
After taking one last look at my handiwork in the kitchen, I start flipping off lights as I make my way to the stairs. It’s been a long freaking day, and I’m ready to shower and cuddle into the gorgeous bed in my private rooms.
I reach the second floor and find the hall is empty and silent. There’s no sign anyone else is even in this house. It’s almost eerie.
After pressing one thumb to the pad on my door, I turn my head to glance at the closed doors lining the hall, a hint of a smile working onto my mouth.
This isn’t exactly how I thought it would be, but that’s okay.
If Titus stays holed up like this all the time, I pretty much get to live in this gorgeous house all by myself.
I’ll be able to pretend—just a little—that I’m not half a year from being a single mother with nothing but a used car and some clothes to her name.
And pretending is what I’m best at.
It takes me a little longer than I was hoping to get up and moving this morning.
I intended to wake up early and be out the door on my way to the grocery store a half hour ago, but peanut had a totally different plan.
One that included me heaving into the toilet for twenty minutes before finally getting my clothes on, then spending another ten minutes sprawled across my new, cloud-like bed in a cold sweat as I pulled in slow breaths trying to avoid worshiping the porcelain god again.
Thankfully, the nausea running my life slowly subsides, but my stomach muscles ache from all the contracting they did. Changing out of my jeans and into a pair of leggings, I breathe out a sigh of relief at the freedom the stretchy fabric gives my constantly contentious tummy.
Carrying my purse and keys down with me, I go to grab the list I left on the freshly cleaned counter last night.
But it’s not there.
I spin in a slow circle, scanning the crumb and debris dusted hardwood.
It must have slid off, but when I don’t immediately locate it, I end up on my hands and knees, crawling around to look under the few items of furniture Titus owns.
And boy do I wish I’d stayed upright. I’m pretty sure there are whole litters of dust bunnies living under there.
And they’ve collected enough dirt to build themselves a luxury burrow.
“Freaking ridiculous.”
I push up to my feet, intending to go back upstairs. Could I have hallucinated leaving it on the counter? Maybe my pregnancy fogged brain forgot I took it up to my rooms.
I’ve barely reached the bottom stair when the doorbell rings, stopping me in my tracks.
It’s likely Deidre coming to see how the first day went, so I hustle through the foyer and fling open the door.
For the second time—and the second day—in a row, I’m greeted by a man wearing a hat with the logo of the closest grocery store.
The one I intend to visit as soon as I find my missing list.
Based on what I’ve gathered from the trash I cleaned up already, I’m not sure what could’ve been forgotten yesterday that he’s bringing today. Maybe more cereal? A few additional crates of energy drinks?
Like last night, I take the bags he’s carrying, turning to haul them into the kitchen.
After getting so much last night, I expect it to be a quick and simple delivery.
But the guy keeps coming back, bringing more and more and more bags.
When it’s all said and done, every counter I cleaned last night is now loaded with bags.
I thank the delivery guy and send him on his way, then start peeking through what he brought.
There’s everything from flour, to sugar, to tea, and even decaffeinated espresso powder. There are vegetables and fruits and all my favorite cheeses. One bag is packed with nothing but dried beans and another is full of grains.