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“We’re going to stay and make sure every single person who needs a hot meal gets one,” I assure Ms. Stewart. “Even if it means canceling the rest of my engagements scheduled for the day.” I glower at Creed, waiting for him to fight me on this.
He wants to. At least the royal guard part of him does.
But that’s at odds with the part of him that knows this is the right thing to do.
After what feels like an eternity, he pushes out a sigh. “Fine.” He pins Ms. Stewart with a harsh stare. “But I’ll need to have agents posted at every door.”
“Of course.”
He looks back at me. “And you do not leave my side for even a second. This is non-negotiable.”
I smirk. “I’d expect nothing less.”
ChapterTwenty-Three
Esme
I can’t rememberthe last time I’ve felt so fulfilled. So content. Like my life has purpose again.
Within twenty minutes of announcing my decision to stay, food started to arrive, which is a good thing, because the refrigerator and store room didn’t have much. I put a few of the members of my team to work peeling potatoes, then cutting them so we could boil them for mashed potatoes. I had others chop up a bunch of different vegetables to be sautéed. And I set about seasoning the dozens of roast chickens that had arrived, getting them in the oven as quickly as possible.
It’s been hectic and exhausting, but over the past three hours, hundreds of people have filed through the doors, each one grateful to receive a hot meal.
And, as I instructed my team, not a single reporter was allowed inside. I’m not here as a publicity stunt. I’m here to help. To put my words into action.
Through it all, Creed hasn’t left my side, as he promised.
Or, more accurately, threatened.
At first, I wasn’t sure how it would go, considering the constant strain between us. While we haven’t spent the hours laughing and making jokes like we once did, it hasn’t been too awkward, our sole focus on the importance of what we’re doing.
“Do you miss it?” Creed asks as I work beside him, mashing a fresh batch of potatoes.
“What’s that?” I glance his way.
After I showed him the proper way to carve a roast chicken to get the most meat off the bone as possible, that became his job. Truth be told, it looks like he’s actually having fun for once. It looks likeeveryone’shaving fun.
Especially me.
“This.” He waves his hand at the frenzied atmosphere in the kitchen where nearly a dozen people are stationed throughout, each charged with a different assignment. “Cooking.”
I shrug. “I started a program in France where we teach trafficking survivors basic life skills, including cooking.”
“I’m more than aware of that. But I doubt that’s the same as getting your hands dirty, so to speak.”
“It’s a wonderful program.” I force a smile, ignoring his remark. “Through it, hundreds of survivors have moved on from the trauma they endured. Some even loved cooking so much that they went to culinary school.”
“And I find it quite remarkable.” He pauses. “But is that enough?”
“In the few short years since I began the initiative, we’ve helped hundreds of women.”
“I’m not asking if the program’s doing enough for the women you’re trying to help.” He narrows his gaze on me. “I’m asking if it’s enough for you.”
I part my lips, a response on the tip of my tongue. But I quickly snap my mouth shut, not wanting to lie to him. To anyone else, I’d insist it’s a great program that helps hundreds of women and leave it at that. But Creed’s always been able to strip away the façade and see my true feelings.
Even all these years later.
I add some milk to the potatoes and continue mashing, a heavy silence settling between us as his remark echoes in my mind.
