Chapter 19
NINETEEN
My bad luck multiplies. Putting all my energy into producing a competitive dish for the second round of CUM has come at a cost. My fever has returned with malevolence.
In bed, swaddled in blankets like the thickest burrito, my teeth chatter, and I moan every time another round of shivers go through my body.
I have no concept of time, dimly aware that the sky goes light and then dark and then light again.
Knowing I need nourishment to survive this terrible ordeal, I’ve taken to eating my employers’ nasty protein bars in bed, stumbling out of the covers only to use the facilities whenever absolutely necessary.
I sleep in fits, largely alone and abandoned to my fate—except now.
He’s back.
“My soul is not for the taking!”
“Once again,” says the blonde man, “I am not the literal devil.”
Oh. It’s Luke.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, feeling too drained to be embarrassed about what I look like. Part of my hair has matted from sweating and tossing against a pillow. And the crinkling sound I hear when I move around means there is a colony of empty wrappers strewn about. Attractive.
“I’m checking up on you,” says Luke. “I’ve been buried in projections these last few days, and I thought our schedules were merely the opposite, but you haven’t been around for too long, so I got…”
Concerned?
I think of asking, but he’s already busied himself by the side table. A bottle gets taken out of its box, held up, and examined in the light.
Luke deduces, “You haven’t been taking your medicine properly,” in a rather annoyed tone. “You are supposed to take care of yourself, Rita. I’m not happy that you haven’t been.”
“Don’t yell. I’m weak.”
He doesn’t, but there are definitely choice words uttered under his breath.
Luke walks over to my side of the bed. He taps my head with a finger, waiting until I look up at him. An eyedropper of medicine hovers in the air.
“Open up,” orders Luke.
I do.
If I’m not mistaken (which I very well may be in this condition), he stiffens immediately, his body reacting to a stimulus it hadn’t anticipated.
Very slowly, he feeds the eyedropper into my mouth, squeezing out the bitter liquid.
Not wanting any to dribble down my chin, I close my lips around it and suck.
His hand reaches out and fists the bedding beside my pillow.
Luke refills the stopper again and repeats the procedure.
This time when I suck, his eyes stick to the corner of my ear.
When I release the stopper with an audible pop, his face contorts as if in pain.
“Go to sleep,” he commands, leaving my side.
“I am,” I say, fluttering my eyes closed.
“Good.”
“Luke?”
“Stop talking. Rest.”
“But I’ve decided.”
I don’t think he’ll play along, but he does. “You’ve decided what?”
“You can get better at cooking if you want.”
He stands by the door like a man intent on leaving. “…What inspires this confidence?”
“You follow instructions well. So if I have to leave?—”
“Why would you go?”
“If I can’t afford to live in this city?—”
“You live here.”
“I’m nowhere. No key that’s mine.”
“Do you want a special key? I can get you a special key.”
“But for how long?”
“As long as you want.”
It’s as if time has stopped and languishes around that sentence. I think about it multiple times before deciding he can’t mean that. I’m about to argue when he gets bossy again. “Stop worrying. Sleep.”
“Okay,” I mutter, turning my face into the pillow. “But…I’m sorry. For not working—your smoothies. You could fire me again?—”
He reappears. Just like that. Back in my field of vision. How? He’s not breathing regularly. “Never again,” he grits out. “It won’t happen. Look at me and understand this, Rita. It won’t happen again. Even if you say we aren’t anything again, I won’t speak to you like that.”
“Okay. I’m sorry about your childhood.”
His mouth flattens. “Don’t. That’s not on you.”
“I know. You—don’t let yourself be sad about it.”
“Yes, well, I’ve been taught it’s an inefficient emotion.”
“I’ll do it.” Because that makes total sense to my foggy brain. “Not in a pity way, obviously . But as a substitute stand-in for when you want to be sad. I’ll do it. For you.”
My eyelids want to droop, but I drag my gaze up to his. Our eyes lock, and for the length of a few skipped heartbeats, I can see I’ve rendered him wide-eyed and speechless.
Then he turns, and all I can see is the breadth of his shoulders. The wide lines articulate perfectly, and that perfection continues all the way down…
I jolt aggressively to count the ridges in the ceiling because I can’t be caught fawning over his bum! As what must be another symptom of my fever, a blush spreads across my face.
“Good night, Rita. Shut your eyes.”
This time it’s a rather forceful command, so I do. And for the most part, I sink into uninterrupted rest minus two incidents where my vitals are checked by a hovering doctor or I’m given this broth to drink.
Luke is there. He doesn’t come close enough for us to have a conversation, but I can see him in the background leaning against the doorway, his hands tucked into his pants, supervising.
The next time I wake up, I’m invigorated and immediately notice the empty protein bar wrappers are gone. Someone cleaned them up and also parked a serving cart beside the bed.
Steadier now, I go over to examine it. Silver metal legs connect two glass-tier bases.
It’s a piece belonging to a spa or a first-class train compartment where mobile food services go down the aisle.
But this cart’s contents have not been customized for sophistication.
There are no fancy bottles and glassware of all sizes.
The first tier has soup, bananas, avocados, crackers, and yogurt. The second tier is even more boisterous. It is loaded with drinks: coconut water, electrolyte sports beverages in all colors of the rainbow, bottled water, and a pile of green tea bags sans hot water or a hot water generating device.
The devil Luke has done this for me.
I know since it’s a mishmash, and the yogurt has been exposed to the Danger Zone—an environment of two or more hours where bacteria can multiply at room temperature—and because also on the cart is a matte black credit card with his name on it. For me to use. If the items there are not to my liking.
I don’t know what to think about that.
When I go into the bathroom, a look in the mirror reveals someone smiling, soft-eyed, and absently distracted.
It must be all the rest, I decide. It’s done wonders.
Walking around without the need to sweat, shiver, vomit, or collapse is a blessing I will never again under-appreciate.
As a consequence of a clear head, I can more closely observe the upstairs wing of Luke’s penthouse.
I try to not intrude, avoiding any closed doors, but still have to navigate at least a subset of my surroundings to move between my temporary bedroom, my temporary bathroom, and the kitchen where I cook.
My journey starts in the bedroom. It is a stately gray color, very large, with an entire wall made of glass that leads to the private terrace, and another entire wall of oak paneling faced with battens made of the same material.
The only reason I discover the wall is actually a hidden floor-to-ceiling closet is because I spot a slim, metal handle and cautiously tug on it. Empty and available for me to use.
I continue living out of my suitcase.
My belongings cluster in the corner, brash, and zippy shapes amongst an otherwise muted palette of grays, beiges, and whites. My stuff stands out like a zany fingerprint smudge on the perfect mirror.
Attached to the bedroom is a private bathroom, carved out of hedonistic marble streaked with caramel, white, and charcoal.
Balanced and beautiful, the walls, floors, and counters look as if painted by the hands of an ancient Greek sculpturist. The standalone claw-footed tub, copper sink bowl, and slotted vertical drains in the shower are high modernism.
Tucked into the drawers are rolled-up towels of all sizes, generous toiletries in individual containers, and naked bottles of products.
The wealthy love marking their liquids with a high-end label maker.
Shampoo.
Body wash.
Moisturizer.
It went on.
All high-grade quality, I know. They lather onto my body like clouds.
Outside my sleeping quarters is a corridor with no photo frames or art.
It would have reminded me of a clinical ward in a hospital if not for the luxurious crown molding by the ceiling and the warmth given off by chestnut hardwood.
Unfolding from the corridor is a spiral staircase that leads down to the main floor of the flat.
Descending it makes me feel opulent. This downstairs portion of the home I am most familiar with.
It has the kitchen, the living room, the dining room—and another two wings I am not going to explore.
This is luxury, but where am I going to live after this? What happens next? I can’t get used to anything. Is it finally time to think about that?
Heavy are my thoughts as I enter the kitchen.
Then my mouth hangs open.
Gone are the French bistro table and chairs that used to sit by the kitchen.
In their place is a dry-erase board on wheels. So large it’s as tall as me and double that in width. The frame is aluminum, thinly bordered so most of it is porcelain whiteness is available, though the middle part of the board is not empty.
In big block letters is a written message.
NOT A brIBE.
Up in the corner are my notebook pages held up by magnets.
I had left it behind the other day, and now they are mounted like future guidelines to follow.
As if I’m going to make it to the next round.
That required for success is a vehicle for more brainstorming.
I go trail my hand along the smooth surface before rearing back and brushing my fingertips across my sternum.
“That genius,” I whisper.
Luke Abbot is a tactician, brilliant, cheeky, and expert manipulator.
How can I not drown in a rush of gratitude?
And how awkward to stuff that back down to an emotion more level-headed than this.
I’m going to have to one-up him by finding the most perfect thank-you gesture, so I can once again be in the lead of…
whatever this game is that we are playing with each other.
That afternoon, I make Torta Garash, a decadent Bulgarian dessert of walnut sponge, dark chocolate, creamy ganache, desiccated coconut, and sliced almonds. It is stored in the fridge since I’m not sure when Luke’s next business meeting is, but if the pattern holds, it should happen soon.
Then I spend an entire evening brainstorming meal kit fusion recipes that feature pork. My strategy is to cover the most common proteins this week before moving on to popular vegetables next week.
The dry-erase board is very effective in this process. If pressed, I might even call it a game-changer.
I don’t know how much longer I can live in his penthouse, but all my energy is focused forward onto the meal kit competition as a solution that takes care of everything—as long as I win. Right now, it feels as if it’s the only option. The last card in my deck.
Luke does not stop by at any point.
I wonder at the strength of my disappointment.