“Well, I can’t do itbeforewe get home. That would be unreasonable.”
I glared at him. He did not look remotely apologetic.
“You are not micromanaging my knee,” I warned.
He looked at me with that small, half-smile of his. I liked that look on his face entirely too much.
“I can manage my own recovery.”
“I am aware.”
“Then why do I feel like I’ve been onboarded?”
He chuckled to himself, like I was endlessly amusing. “Because you resist structure.”
I stared at him. He wasn’t wrong. I hated that he wasn’t wrong.
“You’re not in charge of me,” I said quietly.
He didn’t answer immediately. That softened something I hadn’t realized was rigid.
“No, Belle, I’m not in charge of you.”
He adjusted the turn signal as we approached the estate gates.
“I’m simply invested,” he added.
The word settled between us. Why did I have an urge to let him be in control?
I looked down at the highlighted pages again. He was about to be insufferable. And for reasons I still didn’t fully understand, I wasn’t entirely mad about it.
15
BELLE
By the time we got home, I was exhausted. The steady knee throb in my knee reminded me with every step that I had, in fact, torn something important. The crutches were still awkward under my arms, rubbing in unfamiliar places, throwing off my balance just enough to make me feel clumsy in my own body.
I hated feeling clumsy, but we had a deal. I cooked. He paid me well so I could keep my father in care. I refused to let today tip that balance.
I maneuvered carefully into the kitchen, setting the crutches against the island before bracing my weight against the counter for a moment. The house was quiet as the late evening summer sun streamed in through the tall windows, catching the edge of the marble countertops. My knee ached, but I ignored it as best I could.
Pasta and roasted veggies, it was something simple. I just needed to stand here and chop as the water boiled.
I opened the refrigerator and pulled out carrots, zucchini, and a red onion. I got ready to toss them in olive oil and fresh herbs. Familiar movements. Familiar rhythm. The comfortof muscle memory, even if the muscle itself was currently unreliable.
I moved slowly, deliberately, adjusting my stance every few minutes when the pressure became too sharp. The knife felt solid in my hand. The rock against the cutting board sounded normal. Steady.
I could do this.
The brace tugged uncomfortably as I shifted to reach for the baking sheet. I hissed under my breath but didn’t stop. I lined the vegetables on the pan and sprinkled salt with practiced fingers.
My knee hurt, but I kept going. Just like I always did. I would not let a minor tear take away the progress I was making.
I had just reached for the oven handle when he came in.
“Stop.” The command in his voice sent a chill down my spine in the best way possible. I had to close my eyes to find the composure I needed to deal with him.
“I’m fine,” I said.
