CHAPTER 22
Emma
Finn may be fourteen steps away, but it might as well be a thousand miles beyond my reach.
I get up. I put my feet on the floor. And I do not go down the hall to his room and slip under his sheets. What I do instead is wash my face, brush my teeth, and get dressed.
I skip the shower since I enjoyed another long, steamy session of six-shower-headed bliss last night before I went to sleep. At least there’s one kind of steamy session in my life.
I almost make it out of my bedroom but think twice, head right back to the bathroom, and put on some mascara and a faint sweep of blush. I’m always so pale, even in the summer.
I make it downstairs by four a.m., and I head right for the coffee maker in the kitchen. I open the nearby stainless-steel container filled with coffee, and I send a little thank you prayer to the universe that this is not a decaffeinated coffee household.
I’ve never understood decaf coffee. It’s like asking for hot ice cream. Or sprinkling sand on your oatmeal instead of brown sugar. What’s the point?
While the coffee brews, I empty the two dishwashers. It takes me a while because I don’t know where everything goes, and once I figure it out, I realize the cupboards need a good scrubbing. That will be the next thing on my agenda.
I go to the refrigerator to grab the half and half, one of three things I didn’t have to throw out in my cleaning frenzy yesterday. I open the door and stop in my tracks.
This is not what I expected to see. It seems the grocery fairy has made a house call.
I see a dozen eggs, milk, butter, bacon, and cheese.
I see condiments, pickles and olives, and even quick-rise yeast. I spot apples and grapes and fresh blueberries and strawberries.
There’s fresh spinach and lettuce, bell peppers, tomatoes, baby carrots and cucumbers.
I see several kinds of fruit juices. A watermelon. Asparagus. Broccoli.
And a big pile of steaks and chops.
That’s when it dawns on me that I should check the pantry. I make myself a big mug of coffee and carry it with me. I flip on the light.
“Holy moly!” She’s outdone herself. I’ll have to thank Phyllis—I mean the grocery fairy—the next time I see her.
The shelves are stocked with rice, potatoes, onions, garlic, and a few essential spices and flavorings.
I see a few new boxes of cereal, including the berry and sprinkled donut flavors of Cap’n Crunch!
There’s several kinds of flours and cooking oils and all the required baking supplies, such as baking powder, baking soda, salt, sugars, chocolate chips, walnuts, and pecans.
My mouth is hanging open.
Somehow, in just one day, this mess has become a real working kitchen. The idea of that has me grinning ear to ear. Of course this isn’t my home. Not my kitchen. Not my groceries. But these are the tools I need to do my job well, and I couldn’t be happier.
I can already tell it’s going to be a great day.
Jazzed from the coffee and the Supermarket Santa visit, I’m motivated to make the most of my cleaning time. I grab the footstool from the laundry room, collect the cleaning supplies I need, and slip on the latex cleaning gloves. I climb up and stand on the countertops to reach the highest cabinets.
I hear myself hum as I scrub, rinse, wipe, dry, and restock. Then I add the finishing touch of a wood treatment that makes the maple cabinet doors glow.
Working hard helps take my mind off the things I’d rather not examine too closely. Such as what Finn’s doing upstairs. In his bed. Maybe naked. His dark hair curled on the pillowcase.
And how his deep blue eyes burn into mine as he strokes my cheek and tells me he wants to make love to me.
Again.
And again.
I’m ridiculous.
This is my job. It’s a job I’m thrilled to have, the job of my dreams. So what if I’m crushing on my boss? It happens. So what if my boss might think I’m pretty? That happens, too. And there it is—the beginning and end of that story.
I lean over the kitchen sink and splash cold water on my face, and then go in search of the steam cleaner. I step outside in the first light of morning and scrub down the bistro table and chairs, then steam clean the living daylights out of the wrought iron surfaces. It’s quite satisfying.
I remember unearthing a heavy canvas tablecloth in a laundry room cabinet yesterday, so I get it, bring it outside, shake it out, and drape it over the bistro table.
I also remember seeing some wildflowers growing along the edges of the ranch lane when I walked in, so I decide to wander outside and see what I can collect.
I come back with an armful of long purple flowers that I think might be called Lupine, along with some yellow flowers that resemble daisies and a few purple-blue clusters that remind me of Finn’s eyes.
I retrieve the large ceramic pitcher I found in a lower cabinet near the sink and arrange the flowers, then set the pitcher in the center of the outdoor table.
It looks as pretty as a picture.
Two hours later, the kitchen is spotless, as is the back patio, the living room, foyer, hallway, downstairs half bath, laundry room, and mud room.
I’m trying to decide what to clean next when Jasmine stumbles downstairs in her pajamas.
It’s a cute cotton set with a sleeveless top and capri-length bottom dotted with pink ponies and rainbows.
She yawns and stretches as she enters the kitchen.
“Hungry, Miss MacLaine?”