Chapter 20
ALARIC
“Evangeline.”
I’m around the counter and by her side before she even has time to lift her head.
Resting my open palm on her lower back, I crouch and survey her face.
“Hey,” I say gently. “Are you all right?”
She forces the air out of her lungs in a slow, shaky exhale. Then she tips her head to the side, the move causing her pale blond hair to shift, exposing watery, weary eyes.
“I’m fine,” she says, her trembling belying that statement. “Just exhausted, overwhelmed, and honestly mortified that you had to see that.”
I startle, straightening. “Mortified by what?”
“Mortified by all this.” She huffs out a little cry, sweeping her hand around the room at the mess.
“And that you saw me during a live. I know it’s cringe, but I really do make a good amount of money this way.
There’s very little overhead, and I’ve done it consistently for close to three years now, which is a lot longer than I can say for most of the big ideas I’ve had in my lifetime. ”
She sighs, the sound utterly defeated.
It takes everything in me not to wrap her in my arms and give her the biggest hug. She doesn’t have to justify anything to me. I loathe that she feels compelled to defend what I just witnessed.
“Wait,” she says, clasping her hands in front of her chest. “You’re not upset about misappropriation of time, are you? I used a flex day. I promise I cleared it with Mauricio first. Oh god—is that why you’re here?”
Instinctively, I smooth my hand up the length of her spine, then cup her neck and squeeze lightly.
“You’re fine,” I insist. “None of this is an issue.” Scanning her setup, I marvel at how clever she is to create a business like this. “But I can’t let another minute pass without saying something.”
She presses her lips together, warily meeting my gaze.
“What I witnessed was nothing short of magnificent. You’re so good on camera.”
She blinks and forces down a swallow.
“I know I’m good at it,” she whispers, “but it’s still exhausting. And sometimes, like right now, I hate it.”
She props her elbows on the countertop and rests her head in her hands.
“I honestly wish you hadn’t have seen that.”
I clamp my mouth shut and clench my fist at my side to keep myself from arguing. I’m honored to have witnessed her in her element. But it’s clear she really is tired, and I certainly don’t want to prolong her night or make her feel any worse.
“Hi, by the way,” she eventually says, peeking up at me through those impossibly long lashes.
“Hi,” I tell her softly, once again fighting my instincts and releasing my hold on her.
“Can I ask why you’re here?” she hedges.
Oh, shit. Right.
“I’m so sorry about this.” Shame trickles in. I shouldn’t be here bothering her. “I thought I could stop by and ask a quick question, but clearly, I’ve interrupted your evening. Honestly, it can wait.”
“What is it?” she presses, standing upright again.
With a sigh, I weigh my options. I don’t want to cause more harm, but I don’t want to leave her either. In the end, my own selfishness coupled with the urge to take care of her in any way I can wins.
“Remember the fidget you gave me last week?”
She nods.
“I seem to have misplaced it.” I press my lips into a straight line, contrite. It’s more likely that someone swiped it—Ollie is still my primary suspect—but she doesn’t need the details. “I was hoping if it wasn’t too much trouble, that you would consider making me another one.”
“Sure,” she says without hesitation. She pivots on her heel, turning toward the pair of 3D printers. “I’ll start it right now. I have the template saved, and that design only takes thirteen minutes.”
Horror shrouds me. “No, no.” I take a step forward. “I didn’t mean right now.”
She just explained how exhausting her evening has been.
“I was hoping to have it ahead of the race events this weekend.”
Her shoulders visibly relax. “Thank god.” Lifting her chin, she offers me a sheepish smile. “I really am wiped. My head is pounding, and I’m still seeing aura spots in my vision every few seconds,” she confesses. “That damn ring light does it to me every time.”
When she turns back to me, she wobbles slightly, and on instinct, I step forward and catch her by the arms.
“I’ve got you,” I promise, ensuring she’s steady on her feet. As I let go and step back, an unsettling thought occurs to me. “Have you eaten today?”
She grimaces, then follows it up with a timid smile. Then she shakes her head nearly imperceptibly. “Between volunteering yesterday and getting set up for this live, I guess I lost track of time.”
Fury licks up my spine. I keep it tempered by grinding my molars so she can’t see how upset I am. Then I quickly concoct a plan. “Sit down and let me make you something.”
Her jaw drops, and her face floods with abject horror.
I stifle a laugh. This woman is absolutely awful at masking her emotions. Or maybe—though this is probably wishful thinking—she just doesn’t try to hide them from me.
“I’m really okay,” she insists.
Ignoring her, I turn and get to work.
She groans, but at least she hops up onto one of the barstools like I asked.
I head to the sink to wash my hands first, noting the small pile of plastic unicorns and rainbows near the soap dispenser. On the other side of the sink are a dozen chili pepper beads lined up from smallest to largest.
“Alaric,” she pleads, her tone more serious than I’ve ever heard it.
I regard her over my shoulder, keeping my expression even. She can beg all she wants. There’s no way I’m leaving this room until she’s eaten.
“I don’t need you to cook for me. I have plenty of snacks in my suitcase,” she tells me, an edge of defiance to her words.
“Snacks?” I question, trying to quell my frustration.
“Yes. I’ve got pita bread and two kinds of trail mix.”
Fucking trail mix? So much for controlling my temper. The fury’s back, quickly transforming into white-hot heat that travels from my spine and through my veins.
Is this woman honestly telling me she plans to survive on stale pita and a handful of nuts and raisins all year?
“You have to eat, Evangeline. You deserve a good meal and to nourish your body.”
She goes quiet.
I tear a paper towel from the roll by the sink, then turn to face her.
Her focus is downcast, set on a small pile of beads in front of her.
“I’m sorry if that was harsh,” I say. Dammit. I’m being overbearing. But I can’t rein in this desire to take care of this woman, no matter how illogical or rash it may be.
“How do you feel about sushi?”
Every room in this hotel is equipped with a rice cooker. Leslie’s team put together welcome baskets for each of our employees that included the supplies needed for homemade sushi.
Evangeline scrunches her nose. “Sticky rice and raw fish? Not my vibe.”
I cross my arms and huff out a chuckle. I should have figured as much. “How do you feel about plain white rice?”
Sitting up straighter, she says, “I love rice, especially when it’s loaded up with butter and salt.”
Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. “And how do you feel about cucumbers?” If memory serves, there are a few in the sushi-making kit.
“Oh, I like cucumbers, too,” she assures me.
Two for two.
“All right: time for a trick question.”
Lips twitching, she nods.
“How do you feel about cream cheese?”
While she told me explicitly that she doesn’t like cheese, she did make an exception for Parmesan. Since cream cheese is really more of a spread, I’m hopeful. And it would allow me to incorporate more protein into her meal.
“Cream cheese is fine,” she says with a pleasant smile. “It’s a schmear, not really a cheese, ya know?”
Affection blooms in my chest. My thoughts exactly.
Grinning, I rub my palms together. This is going to work. “Last question, I promise. Thoughts on miso soup?”
I prepared a package of the instant soup in my own room this evening. It was surprisingly flavorful and, according to the package, full of nutrients.
She scrunches her nose once more. “Is that the one with the little green things floating around in it?”
“I can prepare it sans green things if you’d like that better.”
She nods, then sighs. “Soup sounds good.”
Confident in my plans, I survey the small kitchenette. “If you’re okay with me being here, I’ll have food ready in about thirty minutes.”
“Alaric, really…” she starts again.
While the tone is laced with objection, I believe it has more to do with me going out of my way for her. I don’t think it’s about my presence. In fact, every time I look at her, I get the distinct impression that she wants me here as much as I want to be here.
Boldly, I hit her with my sternest glare, hopeful she’ll give up the fight now that we’ve settled on a menu.
I should have known better when it comes to this woman.
She scowls back at me, then lifts one eyebrow in challenge.
So I play the card I’ve been holding back. “As your boss, I must insist.”
Lips pressed together, she fights back a smile. “At least let me help you,” she offers, scooting to the edge of her stool.
“Evangeline.”
The low command causes her freeze in place, half off the stool.
“Please let me do this for you,” I implore.
She holds my gaze for one second, then two, then three.
“Okay,” she finally relents, putting me out of my misery. “But only because I’ve got a whole bunch of orders to update,” she’s quick to add. “That damn prize wheel is more trouble than it’s worth.”
She hops back onto the barstool, pulling her laptop toward her. “I’ll sit here and work on that while you’re cooking, if that’s okay.”
“More than okay,” I assure her. “Put your headphones on if you want. You can pretend I’m not even here.”
She meets my gaze, her pretty blue eyes flickering with amusement.
The unspoken part of all this is that I shouldn’t be here. There’s no reason for me to be inside an employee’s hotel room, let alone the room of a woman who’s probably twenty years my junior.
“How old are you, by the way?”
The question tumbles out before I can think better of asking.
Shit. As her employer, am I allowed to ask her that?
“I’m twenty-six,” she tells me, pulling her headphones out of their case.