11. Marianne #2
Working around this rugged contractor felt unexpectedly comforting.
Tristan’s executive security detail always treated her like a problem to manage.
Tristan commanded absolute attention in any room he entered, turning every minor inconvenience into a suffocating spectacle to prove his billionaire worth.
He doesn’t treat me like a fragile glass ornament.
The realization stopped her dead in the aisle.
Tristan never offered this kind of practical protection.
If a pipe leaked in the penthouse, he dispatched an army of luxury contractors and expected endless gratitude for writing a check.
Elias bypassed the theatrics entirely. He simply wedged his shoulders beneath the dripping sink and fixed the broken pipe, leaving her to run the counter in quiet relief.
Metal yielded under the sink with a sharp groan.
Marianne braced her elbows, pressing her weight down onto the counter to relieve the pressure on her swollen ankles.
The relentless ache radiating up her lower spine demanded a break she refused to take.
Elias locked the copper joint into place beneath the sink and set his wrench down on the floorboards.
He slid his broad shoulders out from under the cabinetry and stood up in the narrow aisle. He grabbed a towel off the lower shelf. He scrubbed the grime from his knuckles and tossed the towel onto the counter. He did not immediately reach for his toolbox. Instead, he looked directly at Marianne.
She stiffened, attempting to straighten her posture. Her boots felt glued to the floorboards.
“Off your feet, Marianne,” Elias said.
He stepped past her, crossing to the front window.
He grabbed the backrest of a tall stool used for displays.
He dragged the stool backward across the floorboards.
The stool scraped against the floorboards, cutting right through the hum of the commercial refrigerators.
He planted the seat directly behind the cash register.
“You’re ghost-white,” Elias said. “These people can wait five minutes for a muffin.”
Marianne stared at the battered wood. In Tristan’s world, acknowledging physical fatigue was a logistical failure.
Eleanor treated every wince like a deliberate insult to the Hawthorne pedigree.
Sitting down during a high-stakes shift meant forfeiting the right to exist in their gilded rooms. She held her ground, determined to push through the exhaustion.
“I’m surviving, Elias,” Marianne said, refusing to slouch. “The noon rush is about to hit the door, and Hazel is already buried in dough prep. I can handle the line.”
“You can handle the line sitting down,” Elias said. He crossed his arms over his chest, blocking the path back to the pastry racks. “I’m not moving this thing, so take the win.”
He didn’t look at her like a defective corporate asset.
He just looked at a tired pregnant woman who needed a chair.
The unquestioning decency of the gesture threw her off balance.
Tristan dispatched concierges to manage her pregnancy, turning every symptom into a sterile scheduling conflict.
Elias simply brought her a place to rest.
The kitchen doors remained shut, but Hazel’s booming voice easily carried through the wood.
“Don’t argue with the contractor, sweetheart!” Hazel shouted over the noise of the stand mixers. “If you don’t park yourself on that wood right now, I’m locking the front door and cutting your hours!”
Elias nodded toward the register. They actually care if I collapse. The realization snapped the last thread of her stubborn pride. These people did not demand flawless endurance to prove she belonged. They simply wanted her safe.
She let out a quiet laugh, surrendering her weight to the wood as the burning strain in her calves finally evaporated.
Marianne let the relief sink into her joints for a brief moment before digging a hand into her apron pocket.
She retrieved a notebook and a pencil. Flipping to a dog-eared page, she flattened the notebook on the counter and began tracking her meager hourly earnings against the looming expenses of a newborn.
“This covers the utilities and the rent,” Marianne muttered, tapping the pencil against the blue lines.
Beside her, Elias shifted, his boots creaking as he leaned against the lower cabinetry to settle in without hovering. A moment later, the kitchen doors kicked open. Hazel backed out of the kitchen, brandishing a spray bottle and a rag.
A sharp burst of lemon ammonia misted through the warm air. Hazel attacked the empty far end of the case, dragging the rag across the glass to clear away a smudge of powdered sugar.
Marianne stared down at the penciled numbers.
Calculating literal pennies for basic survival should have sparked panic.
Instead, she pressed the pencil down hard enough to indent the page.
This meager column of numbers belonged to her.
Tristan’s titanium black cards couldn’t purchase a single second of the physical safety she felt inside this flour-covered room.
“If I keep the grocery run strictly under fifty dollars this week, I can actually afford the nursery trim,” Marianne said, looking up from the notebook. “I just need to get the walls painted before I get too big to reach the ceiling.”
Elias tucked a thumb into his belt loop. “Skip Fletcher’s supply shop. He gouges the locals on hardware.”
“I can’t skip the supply shop if I want the primer done by Sunday,” Marianne said.
“I have three unopened gallons of white primer sitting on my basement workbench you can just take,” Elias said. “Fletcher ordered the wrong tint for a job last month, and I’m tired of tripping over the cans.”
There was no hidden transactional hook in his offer. He wasn’t demanding gratitude or setting a trap to prove his status. He was offering surplus paint.
“Take the free supplies, Marianne,” Hazel said, spraying another blast of ammonia onto the glass. “He owes us both compensation for putting up with his foul mood before his first cup of coffee.”
“My mood was fine,” Elias grumbled.
The front door swung open with a chime, bringing the afternoon rush with it. Marianne set her pencil aside.
She slid the budget notebook back into her pocket and turned on the stool, ready to greet the line.