“Ms. Blythe,” he said with a polite smile.
“Geoffrey.”
His gaze dropped briefly to my leg, then returned to my face.
“Mr. Renault is expecting you.”
I stepped inside. The air, blessedly, was cooler here. I took stock of the kitchen while I waited for the Beast. That name suited him, but not in the way I thought it would. Yes, he was big and had watching eyes, and I had yet to see a smile underneath that full beard, but it was something else. More than anything, it was the energy of a massive animal that you know could kill you if it wanted to, yet somehow I just wanted to snuggle with it.
Whoa, where on earth did that thought come from? Raphael Renault was definitely not the snuggling type.
No, no snuggling. You are here to make him food. And judging by the state of those sad microwave meals I’d seen him heating up, he needed it.
The kitchen at the Renault estate was beautiful. It wasn’t warm or even lived in. Beautiful in a way that felt curated, like nothing in here had ever been used.
I set my bag on the counter and took stock of what Geoffrey had laid out.
“Mr. Renault prefers simple,” he said.
“I can do simple,” I asked.
“Basic and well-balanced. Nothing too crazy.”
“Ah,” I nodded. “So not chaotic lasagna.”
He did not smile, but something in his expression softened. “Something like that. I’m sure he will be down to speak with you soon. You do seem to keep showing up, don’t you?”
I nodded before I tied my hair back tighter and got to work. Cooking was easier than thinking. I’d been cooking for myself and my dad since I was ten years old. So I easily found my rhythm, even if my knee throbbed in the background, a low warning hum I chose to ignore.
Soon, I became aware of it. Not the pain, but of him. Raphael Renault did not make noise when he entered a room, but something in the air shifted. He was in the doorway.
“You’re hovering,” I said without turning around.
“I am observing.” The deep, rich timbre of his voice soothed me. Why did it soothe?
“That’s hovering with better branding.”
Silence. I plated the food deliberately.
“How about this?” I said, wiping my hands. “On days I’m here, I cook dinner. On days I’m not, I prep and label. You heat.”
“Yes. That is suitable.”
“Five evenings this week.”
“Yes.”
“And the basement on my days I’m not scheduled to clean.”
“Yes.”
I glanced at him. It was becoming a goal of mine to get him to string together more than five words. He was a smart man. Surely he could do it.
“My off days are becoming fictional,” I joked as I leaned my hip against the counter, taking some pressure off my stable leg.
“You agreed to the hours.”
“Correct.”
