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I shake my head skeptically. “I don’t think you can make this dish right.”
Lucius scoffs, offended. “I’m Lucius Fairchild, owner of Lucius Creations. I cater to the rich and famous. I think I can handle mac and cheese.” He straightens up. “I’ll even make a healthy dessert.”
I glance at him doubtfully. “It’s not Wednesday or Saturday.”
Lucius looks confused. “What does that mean? You’ll only let me cook on those days?”
“No desserts except on Wednesday and Saturday,” I say firmly, shaking my head. “But if you really want the challenge, be my guest and cook dinner. I just don’t think anyone will eat your food—don’t forget to add Canadian bacon to it.”
He scrunches his nose. “I accept the challenge, even with the Canadian bacon,” Lucius declares, gathering ingredients from the fridge, including fancy cheeses.
“I’ve got the mac and cheese mix here,” I say, showing him the familiar blue box.
“Obviously, but what if I elevate it with better ingredients?”
I shake my head, singing under my breath. “This is going to be a disaster . . . I might as well give in and order pizza.”
He shakes his head. “Trust me, I think it’ll be a success. Go do your thing, I’ll have dinner ready soon.”
I come to a halt. “Can we keep . . .” I glance around. “This between us?”
He presses his lips together. “Of course.”
When I move to leave the kitchen, I see there’s another text from Brahms.
Brahms: Why is the elevator locked?
I grin mischievously.
Sephie: Because you don’t have access to the rest of the house from five to eight p.m.
Brahms: What the fuck, Seraphina?
“Fuck.” Somehow I can hear him growling from upstairs.
This feels like a victory. I wish I could see him, but I’m satisfied with his text.
Brahms: Is this like a punishment for something?
Sephie: No. I just need the house for those three hours. After that it’s all yours.
Brahms: Then give me back my weekends.
Sephie: If I do, I’ll have to take away the house access during the weekend.
“You’re fucking with the wrong person.” I hear him all the way to the bottom of the stairs.
I have to stifle a laugh at his outrage. I wish I could see his reaction, but I’m satisfied listening and riling him up via text . . .
Brahms: I want the freedom to go wherever the fuck I want.
Sephie: Not this week, or the next one. Maybe soon. How was today’s therapy?
Brahms: I thought you said you’d supervise.
Sephie: There was an emergency. There’s a clause in the contract that says you’ll be flexible if any of your therapists have an emergency and we need to switch the schedule on you.
Brahms: You’re trying my patience.
