“Hello.”
“Ms. Blythe.”
His voice was unmistakable. Even, controlled, faintly impatient.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Where are you?” his deep voice rumbled through the phone.
I blinked. “At a bakery.”
A pause.
“I require additional assistance.”
“With the basement? I was told to come in on Monday, but I can come in today if needed.” While I was unsure if I would walk around his basement, the money was needed.
“No.” Another pause. “Can you cook?”
I stared at the wall for a second. “Yes, I can cook.”
“I need you to prepare evening meals. I have been using a meal service, but their quality has declined.”
I shifted carefully in my seat. “That’s . . . not technically in my job description.”
“I would compensate you.”
Of course, he would.
“How so?” I asked.
He named a number. My grip tightened slightly on the coffee cup.
“That’s generous.”
“It reflects the expectation.”
The way this guy talked both irritated and amused me. It was as if his words cost him money, and he was stingy.
“Is this a long-term arrangement?” I asked.
“For the week, and then we will revisit it.”
My brain moved fast. Five days at that rate. Basement hours, the routine cleaning, along with the shifts at the coffee counter in the book shop, a few nights a week.
“Okay,” I said. “I can do that.”
“You will come this afternoon.” Not a question.
“I’ll be there.”
The line disconnected. I stared at my phone for a moment. Cooking for Raphael Renault in that house for money that mattered more than I wanted to admit. I finished my coffee and stood carefully.
Later that day, I made my way to the estate. The gates opened automatically. I pulled into the same spot and shut off the engine. I stepped out of the van and closed the door firmly. One push. Two. It was a habit.
The knee protested as I made my way towards the service entrance. I ignored it. The stone path felt longer than it had before. I knocked.
Geoffrey opened the door.
