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Good girl.
I should find it patronizing or condescending and at the very least…too intimate.I’m a married woman.
I close my eyes against the heat of emotion that flushes my cheeks.
My heart beats madly. No one,no one,has ever called me a good girl. My throat feels strangely tight. A flush creeps across my skin, and my pulse begins to quicken.
I left my husband.
I will never return to him again.
The scents of maple and bacon wafting up from my plate are irresistible and a good distraction, so I continue to eat to ground myself against these strange, unexpected feelings. The food is so delicious and I’m so hungry, I have to force myself to slow down so I don’t inhale it.
I eat delicately while Sergio eats half an egg in one bite, adds even more butter to his toast, and chases it all with hot, black coffee. “I could eat this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and be happy,” he finally says. My heart soars with pride, and a little part of me years to hear him say it again, just one more time.
Good girl.
But when he bites a large wedge of buttered pancakes drenched in syrup, he groans. “You’re hired. Did I already hire you? If I did, I’m sorry, because I want to hire you again.”
“I believe you were testing my skills.”
“Your skills,” he grunts, eating another piece of pancakes. “Jesus, I’ll give you a bonus before you’re even hired.”
I try to hold myself back from grinning.
When both of our plates are clean, he leans back in his chair with a sigh of contentment. I stand and carry both of our plates over to the sink.
“That was delicious.”
Again, his praise warms me.
I’m confused about my feelings for him. I’m a married woman. I can’thavefeelings for another man and not risk eternal damnation.
But do I really believe that anymore?
“I’m glad you liked it,” I say, turning to face him. “So where do we go from here?”
I imagine a corner of his lips quirks up before he schools his features and gives me a curious look.
“That was only one meal, but I’ll consider hiring you for a temporary position on my staff if you show me you can cook more than breakfast.”
Oh,really? So that’s how we’ll play it then. “What sorts of food do you need me to cook?”
“Our specialty is Italian food.”
My heart soars. It’s as if, finally, I’m catching a break.
Maybe thereisa God and maybe He doesn’t hate me.
“While I’m not Italian, I promise that’s something I can cook. IloveItalian food.”
When he opens his mouth to respond, a knock sounds at the door. I jump.
“I called a favor in and asked my cousin to bring you some clothes.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
I ignore the way the blood rushes in my ears and my cheeks heat with embarrassment. I swallow and nod.
