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I finished cleaning my hands and texted a quick reply.
Thank you, Henri, although I’m not sure I’ve earned such a generous bonus. Renzo barely even talks to me.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket and started kneading the dough again. The phone vibrated against my hip. I managed to ignore it, until I’d placed the dough into a covered bowl to rise. Henri’s reply, though, only confused me.
Believe me, you’ve earned it. You’ve made a big impression on him. Not only has he not asked me
to fire you, he has asked me to extend your contract indefinitely.
I felt the jolt of excitement at the offer. Then felt foolish.
I couldn’t stay. Even though I hardly saw Renzo now, he still had a powerful effect on me. And hearing the grunts and groans coming from the gym whenever I passed by the door to the downstairs area on my way to the kitchens shouldn’t have pleased me either.
But they did.
I’d come here to make peace with what happened between us all those years ago... And instead I was becoming stupidly invested in Renzo’s recovery.
And that wasn’t good. For me or him.
What had begun to bother me most of all, though, was that I still responded to him, not just on a physical level but also on an emotional one. And I wasn’t sure anymore which was worse. All very good reasons not to extend my contract past the end of this week.
My work here was done. Renzo was eating again, he was regaining his strength. He had also become less of a recluse, and the estate was being returned to its former glory.
I wasn’t here alone with Renzo anymore during the day, and that felt good too. Or at least it should. Why on earth would I miss those early days, when it had been just me and him, constantly bickering with each other?
Of course, it was still just the two of us in the evenings. Because the other employees left each day at six o’clock. But I made a point of taking him his evening meal early and never entering his bedroom now, so I didn’t disturb him—or me—after his workout...
I did still take midnight swims in his pool occasionally or in the private cove below the estate. But my act of defiance felt foolish and self-absorbed these days, because I was sure he had no idea—I suspected he was in bed most evenings long before midnight, because of the exhausting physio work.
I texted Henri a reply, even as my heart pushed into my throat at the thought of leaving the chateau in two days’ time.
I have another job starting in a couple of weeks. But I’ll find someone else who can come in and cook for Renzo. And I’ll brief them on the menu I’ve created.
It wasn’t true. I didn’t have another job lined up for two months, but I knew that hollow feeling in my stomach was a bad sign. I couldn’t risk becoming any more invested in Renzo’s recovery. Because it was starting to feel personal. And the more he ignored me, the more I seemed to yearn for his attention. Also not good.
I pressed my hand to my stomach, remembering the life which had been there so briefly. Maybe if I hadn’t miscarried, I would have had a tangible reason to remain here, to care what happened to him, to feel pleased whenever he devoured one of my dishes, or proud when the physio updated me on his progress while grabbing something to eat between their sessions.
But that reason had died long ago.
Henri texted a few more times, offering increasingly ridiculous sums of money to tempt me to change my mind.
Finally, I switched off the phone, because I was running late and if this was going to be one of the last meals I cooked for Renzo, I wanted it to be perfect.
I shoved the personal thought to one side, as I finished laying out the meal of seared scallops, dauphinoise potatoes and tender-stem broccoli in chilli oil and Parmesan.
The last of the staff had already clocked off when I finally carried the prepared tray up the wide sweeping staircase to his room. Nerves assailed me as I walked into the sitting area. But just as I placed the tray on the table where I usually left it now, someone cleared their throat.
My head jerked around. I straightened, the nerves intensified by the jolt of déjà vu. Renzo stood in the bedroom doorway, silhouetted against the evening sun. His hair was damp and swept back, but the heavy beard he had worn the last time I had seen him, weeks ago now, was gone.
He wore the familiar sweatpants, which hung off his lean hips. But nothing else.
My gaze leapt from his chest—no longer hollow or gaunt—and landed on his face. Heat exploded in my cheeks.
Had he caught me checking him out?
Clean-shaven, his lean face was even more striking. And reminiscent of the man who had once seduced me. I could see the changes so clearly now, from when I had first arrived. Gone was the surly scowl, the sallow complexion, the dark shadows under his eyes. He used a walking stick now, but he was standing much taller, and his face was no longer tight with pain.
I cleared my own throat, because he was staring at me, silently, his gaze intense and assessing, and it was doing nothing to prevent the heat swelling at my core and making my nipples peak painfully under my T-shirt—or the pulse of emotion in my chest. I steeled myself against the disturbing reaction.
