Chapter 6
Bennett
“Good morning!” says a perky voice.
I’d hoped to make my escape before Zoe came downstairs, and I would have succeeded if I weren’t a few minutes behind schedule. Thanks to my poor night’s sleep, I’m not as efficient as usual, and I cut myself while shaving, which I haven’t done in ages.
Although I’ve been up for almost two hours, it’s still too early to deal with Zoe Shen, especially when she’s wearing a gray pencil skirt that…
Well, the less I think about her skirt, the better.
I’m going to blame that momentary slip on my poor sleep. I’m not used to having another person in my house, and it just felt wrong last night.
“Morning,” I say at last, with none of her good cheer. “There’s coffee for you.”
“Thank you!” She sets a mug on the counter.
Wait a second…
“I have plenty of mugs.” I open the cupboard to show her the selection. “You don’t need to use your own dishes.”
“This is my special morning coffee mug. I use it every day.”
I peer at the mug in question. It has a colorful illustration of a strange creature on it.
“Is that a fluffy unicorn?” I say, appalled.
“It’s a llamacorn.” She giggles. Actually giggles.
Yeah, it’s definitely too early to deal with her.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You said ‘fluffy.’”
“Why is that entertaining?”
Her smile fades. “I don’t know. It just is.”
God, this woman is exasperating.
I exit the kitchen.
“Have a good day at work!” she calls after me.
“Is everything okay, boss?” Petra asks when I stride into the office.
“Why would anything be wrong?”
“You usually get in before me,” my assistant says, “but I’ve been here for fifteen minutes already.”
I shake my head. “Everything’s fine.”
As soon as I say that, an image of a gray pencil skirt and pink blouse, encasing…
Okay, everything is not fine.
When it comes to work, I expect minor catastrophes on a regular basis, but in order to deal with such things, it helps for my home life to be relatively calm.
Which it’s not, thanks to Zoe.
“It’s fine,” I repeat, as if saying it enough times will make it true.
When I unlock the front door to my house just after eight o’clock, I’m greeted by the fragrance of sesame oil. I’m not used to coming home to the smell of a freshly cooked dinner. On Mondays, I usually reheat one of the meals that I get delivered to my house every Sunday.
“Hi!” Zoe bounds toward the door. She’s wearing a bright pink T-shirt—just as offensive as the yellow one she wore yesterday—and pants that look like they’d be fuzzy to the touch.
Not that I should be thinking of touching her.
“How was your day?” she asks.
“You don’t have to greet me when I come home,” I say, untying my shoes.
“I made you dinner.”
“You don’t need to do that, either.”
“I know, and don’t worry, this won’t be a regular thing, but I wanted to thank you for letting me stay here. I also realized that we never talked about financial compensation. I’m happy to pay you rent—”
I wave that away. “No need.”
“I thought you’d say that, which is why I made you dinner and dessert instead. I hope you like sanbeiji? I wasn’t sure when you’d be home, so I cooked for seven thirty. Do you always get home this late?”
“Often.”
Is she talking this much because I’m making her nervous? Is it my lack of enthusiastic greeting, perhaps?
But this is my house, and I shouldn’t be required to alter my behavior just because I have an unwanted guest. I shouldn’t need to explain my habits to her.
I push up my sleeves as I head toward the kitchen. Zoe scurries ahead of me and starts dishing rice into a bowl. She tops it with some of the three-cup chicken and sings softly as she does so, her hips shaking from side to side. I avert my gaze.
“There’s cucumber salad in the fridge,” she says. “Help yourself.”
I open the fridge and see that she must have done a fair bit of shopping after work.
Amazing what you can get done when you aren’t working twelve-hour days.
I take out the salad. To my relief—and surprise, to be honest—the kitchen isn’t a complete shit show.
I’d half expected her to be one of those people who use as many dishes as possible while cooking.
I sit down at the kitchen table, and she puts the bowl in front of me.
“Thank you,” I say briskly.
I expect her to leave, but she sits down across from me.
“Let’s get to know each other,” she says.
Dear god, no.
Instead, I say, “That’s really not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is. If we’re going to pretend to be a couple, I need to know a little about you.”
This woman is relentless. She has a point, but it’s not like we’re going to be advertising our so-called relationship in public anytime in the next week or two. At least, I don’t think we are.
I repress a sigh before picking up a piece of chicken with my chopsticks. “I assume you know what I do for work.”
“I do! The corporate office is in Markham, right? That’s where you were today?”
I nod.
Hm. The food really is quite tasty. An improvement over what I normally eat during the workweek, though I’m not sure it’s worth having to make conversation.
“What do the T and R stand for?” she asks.
The first T&R Mart opened in Scarborough in 1990, and it was followed by a few other stores in the Greater Toronto Area before expansion across Canada began. Outside of Ontario, most of the stores are in B.C.
“Nicknames of the founder’s kids,” I say.
“Oh, that’s sweet.”
I look down at my dinner. “What about your career?”
“I’m a payroll specialist. I’m more of a work-to-live person, whereas you seem to be the opposite.
But it pays the bills, and the hours are fine…
unless there’s a hiccup. Then I work extra until it’s sorted out.
I’m passionate about making sure people are paid on time.
For a year, back when I was a kid, there were repeated issues with my father’s paychecks.
I don’t know what the problem was—I was only ten—but I could see the headaches it caused for my parents. ”
She’s right: it’s a very important task that someone needs to do.
“Are your parents in the Toronto area?” I ask.
“Yes. They’ve lived here since they came over from Taiwan, before we were born.”
“Any other siblings? Or just the guy who unsuccessfully tried to threaten me last night?”
“Just Eddie,” she says with a smile.
A smile that I definitely do not find attractive. At all.
“He’s twenty months older than me,” she adds.
They seem to get along better than Clifton and me, though that’s not saying much.
“What do you like to do outside of work?” I ask.
“So many things! I enjoy going out with friends. Movies. Cooking. Costume parties…”
I hide my distaste for costume parties as she continues to list her hobbies. I think we’ve done enough getting-to-know-you talk for now, so I focus on my food. Once I finish the rice and chicken, I spoon a few pieces of cucumber into my bowl.
When there’s finally a moment of silence, I’m relieved, but then I glance up. She’s looking at me expectantly.
Crap. She must have asked a question.
“Could you repeat that?” I try not to sound as irritated as I feel.
I had to deal with people all day. I shouldn’t have to do it now.
“What shows do you watch?” she asks. “You must watch something.”
“Love Island,” I say without missing a beat.
She tilts her head. “Are you joking? I can’t imagine you actually like reality shows, especially dating ones and—”
“Yes, it was a joke.”
“I didn’t know you were capable of that.”
“Well, I am.” And I’m the tiniest bit insulted that she assumed I have zero sense of humor, though I shouldn’t care what she thinks about me.
I shoot her a vaguely menacing look, hoping it’ll be enough to deter her, but it’s not. She natters on about various reality shows as I stuff a piece of cucumber in my mouth. I have nothing to contribute to the conversation, and thankfully, she doesn’t ask more questions.
I’d be even more thankful if she would shut up and leave. I’d also be thankful if my mind would stop conjuring up the image of her in a bikini on a tropical island. But the words I want to say are exceedingly rude, and this will all be over soon.
When I’m done eating, I stand up and put the salad away.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say politely before placing my dishes in the dishwasher.
I don’t thank her for the conversation.
I turn on the kettle and open the tea cupboard, where I’m assaulted by the appearance of a brightly colored mug. The fluffy llamacorn looks far too pleased with itself.
That’s it. I can’t take it anymore.
I put a hand to my forehead. “If you insist on using your own mug, can you at least store it with the other mugs?”
Though why she can’t use a sensible navy mug, I have no idea.
I turn toward her. She’s worrying her bottom lip.
What’s wrong now? I ate her dinner and listened to her talk. Isn’t that enough? She’s turning my life upside down, and this wasn’t part of the deal.
“I can’t reach that shelf,” she says at last.
“Not my problem,” I snap. “You said I’d hardly know you’re here? Well, Zoe, I definitely know you’re here, and I don’t like it.”
I don’t wait for her response. I can’t wait for her response.
No, I stalk to my home office, which is on the first floor, and check my email. There were some massive supply issues that we had to deal with today, so I’m behind. I’d planned to devote half an hour to my email after dinner.
Except I can’t concentrate. After reading the same words three times without comprehending them, I lean back in my chair and shove my hands through my hair.
I like my routine. I’m used to coming home late, having a quick dinner, and not needing to speak to anyone. I’m used to being the only one in my house, other than Mittens. I’m used to everything staying exactly where I want it to be. No mugs with bizarre fantastical creatures in my kitchen.
But snapping at someone? That’s not me.
After my second year of university, I had a summer job in an office, with a manager who was known for yelling. People walked on eggshells around him. I swore I wouldn’t be that kind of boss.