Chapter 7
?
Change sucks. But ramen is eternal.
Mirabelle
New job. New home. New, new, new.
This all happened so much faster than I expected.
This morning, Mr. Anders hired men to move us out and in, and it was bip, bam, boom done.
In, like, two hours. Fawn’s at work right now, and I guess I am, too, so she and I have lots of unpacking to do later, but I can’t focus on where everything is going to go at the moment.
Right now, I have to make Mr. Anders lunch.
Because of moving, I missed making his breakfast at eight, but lunch is at noon, pre-workout is at four, and dinner is at seven—according to my notes based on the questions I asked him two weeks ago.
So help me, I’ll not be missing anything else on my first day as Mr. Anders’s housekeeper.
My sign-on bonus hit my bank account three days after we signed the contract two weeks ago.
I am being paid so well.
Therefore, I will do a job worthy of my salary. Better, even. Because I’ve always sort of been team one hundred and ten percent, even when my pay was a tiny drop in the pond of what it is now.
Tightening my apron, I begin unloading the groceries I got this morning amid the move with the ambition of a woman who has spent the past few weeks researching high-class recipes.
FYI: they’re full of alcohol.
Literally nothing I found lacked a white or a red or a sherry.
So…naturally…I’m making ramen today.
With half a dozen eggs, and three kinds of meat.
Because the man is a tank, and I can’t have him nutrient deficient on my first day.
“That is…a lot of meat.” Mr. Anders’s voice grouses into the kitchen while I’m sorting my ingredients for lunch from the ones I got for the rest of the week.
I smile at him. “It’s easy and filling protein.”
He rests his shoulder against the wall and folds his arms.
“I managed to squeeze a short supply run in between moving and now. I put everything on the card you gave me, and I know I’ll be handling the budget and the receipts going forward as part of my position, but if you’d like to go over what I got—”
“No, that’s fine.”
I flinch. “Right. Sorry. This is my job, so you don’t have to spend your time worrying about it.”
“No…it’s not that. I just trust your judgment.” He cocks his head against the wall. “I’ve been busy this morning. Were you able to get settled in already? I hope the moving company treated you well.”
His tone seems to imply that if they didn’t, they’ll not be moving anything. Ever again. Like. Not even their bodies.
But I must be mistaken. Because that feels a little dramatic.
“Oh, yes,” I chirp as I ready a pot to boil the eggs and begin weighing the correct amounts of meat on the food scale I also picked up this morning.
“They were great. I appreciated not having to worry about anything. Having an entire crew makes such a difference. Fawn and I were planning to give Jeffry a call, because last time we moved, he and one of our other buddies just came by with their tow trucks. My nightstand was so damaged, I had to throw it out. Good thing it only cost twenty dollars, right?”
Mr. Anders’s fingers dig into his bicep, but he mutters, “Right.” Pushing off the wall, he enters the kitchen fully, immediately commandeering the atmosphere with his presence.
For a massive space with an island that separates the four ovens, fridge, and stove from a lavish, sprawling dining area, I suddenly feel a spot claustrophobic. “What are you making?” he asks.
Given the display I’m unpacking, it feels really stupid, but I say, “Uh…ramen?”
His gaze cuts to me. “You are joking.”
“Well…no?” I point at the box of Maruchan I got, because I didn’t have time to make fresh noodles this morning before the noon would be upon us. “See? Ramen.”
His heavy gaze lifts, and pins, and judges. “Well. Look at that.”
My stomach flips and flops, so I pull my phone out of my apron pocket and swipe to my ramen folder before presenting the pictures to him. “Like…this.”
His brows rise. Rubbing his neck, he takes my phone and peruses the images, whispering a swear as a short breath leaves him. “This is hilarious.”
I blink at him.
He’s not smiling.
But the softness in his mouth matches the tinge of humor in his eyes.
I hedge, “Is…it?”
He faces my phone screen toward me. “I like your matching bowls.”
My face heats. “Oh, thank you. I got them off Marsh.”
“Great guy, Finn.”
I freeze halfway through rallying to get my broth started. “You know…Finnegan Marsh?”
He tilts my phone toward me to return it. “Yes. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Right…” I drop my phone back in my pocket. “But you actually know him?”
“Somewhat. The last time we spoke, he invited me to play Stardew Valley with him and his wife’s friends.
Apparently some recent update to the game increased multiplayer capacity from four to eight?
” His gaze drifts toward the elegant light fixture twisting across the ceiling in winding reams of gold and silver.
“I didn’t really understand what was going on for a minute, but I figured it out. ”
“You…” It seems idiotic to ask, but I do anyway. “…you played with them?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”
I glance from his dark hair all the way down his bear-like body to his probably size-thirty feet.
And then I picture him harvesting crops in a cozy farm sim.
With the billionaire who’s been leading the online shopping industry for the past half decade.
You know. A billionaire who is so profound, I know his full name.
“I named a chicken Toast,” Mr. Anders says, although I haven’t yet processed anything up to this point. Eyes so very steady on me, he adds, “To go with my cow, Cinnamon.”
“What…did you name ‘Crunch’?” I ask.
“My pig.”
A confused half smile lifts one corner of my face, and I can’t picture it. I just can’t.
As though realizing as much, he clears his throat and nudges his chin toward the food I’m working to assemble into a meal. “Anyway…can I help with anything?”
Huh?
“I can probably chop vegetables.”
What?
“Are you weighing everything, because that’ll make it easy for me to know exactly how much you need.” He rolls up his sleeves, revealing the bough and fruit tattoos that cover his arms, and it takes just about all my self control to keep from throwing my body over the counters.
Throwing my hands up instead, I say, “No, no! It’s fine! This is my job. You’re paying me to save you time by making your meals.”
He settles his folded sleeve just below his elbow, where the bulge of his forearm seems determined to rip the fabric should he try to shove it up any farther. “You are saving me time. Two sets of hands make the work faster.”
“But…you could be working on other things right now. Entirely. And then you’d get your meal, right on time. And…”
Stillness settles into the air somewhere between my frazzled nerves and his steady gaze. He pulls his attention away to look toward the exit of the kitchen. Then he hums. “I suppose I could fit a day of Stardew Valley practice in…” His eyes cut back to me.
Stationary.
Dredging.
I…do not know what to say. I do not know what anyone is supposed to say when their boss is glaring a hole into them on their first day and asking to do the work they are paying you a million and one dollars to do.
“You’re very tense,” he notes.
I recall my training and shove a non-tense smile onto my face. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
Drat.
Worrying my lip instead of my apron since my hands are busy, I say, “I guess I just didn’t expect you to offer to help me with my job.
” Am I doing it wrong? Already? “If you don’t want ramen, I can follow just about any recipe.
Lunch might be a little late if I change the meal plan now, but I’m confident in my ability to do better once I’ve learned. ”
“I love ramen,” he says.
I stare at him.
He points at the other side of the island counter. “I can chop stuff all the way over there, so I’m not in your way, if you prefer not to have people in the kitchen while you’re working.”
He’s being kind of insistent.
Is he bored?
Lonely?
Maybe he’s lonely.
Billionaires in the books I read are usually lonely at the top, with all the drama and fake friends and status surrounding them.
I suppose it’s a bit rude of me to assume that he doesn’t know how to manage his schedule. If he’s not working right now, then that means he doesn’t have to and probably doesn’t want to. “If you’d like, you can wash and quarter the bok choy?”
“I’d love to.”
I’m not sure if that was sincerity or sarcasm.
“Short way or long way?” he asks as he gathers the thin plastic bag off the counter and moves with it and a cutting board to the other side of the island.
“Long way,” I say. “Also, cut the tough part off the end.”
“Got it.”
And…he really seems to.
Weird.
I…do not know what to make of this, but I’m going to have to figure it out, at least for the next six months.
“By the way,” he says, casually, breaking the silence a few minutes later.
“Hm?”
The sound of his knife hitting the board melds with water beginning to boil and the steady hiss of the gas stove. “Has anything strange happened recently?”
“Recently?” Oh, yeah. Recently, I was offered a job as a billionaire’s housekeeper, and he’s helping me with it. “How recently?”
“Past few weeks.”
Hm… “I don’t think so? I’ve been kind of busy packing and planning in between closing out my two weeks with Mr. Lundberg.”
“No one’s said anything odd to you at your other jobs?”
“Most of my jobs are empty houses in between renters, so I don’t get much interaction out of them.”
“And the store this morning?”
“I went early and uncharacteristically sped through a self-checkout line. Not many people were around.”
“And Fawn hasn’t brought up anything?”
“No?” I turn to face him.
He’s scowling at his cutting board.
“Is…something wrong? I haven’t told anyone other than Fawn that I’d specifically be working for you.”
“No, nothing’s wrong. Never mind. Don’t worry about it.”
It.
So there’s an it.
Great. Thanks. I will now do nothing but worry about it.
Nevertheless, I smile, chirp, “Okay,” and return to my cooking.