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“But you were what… fourteen when you developed your crush on him?”
“Thirteen—”
“Right. Those first loves are brutal. Especially with someone older. I mean he was what, eighteen? Did he even notice you then?”
Memories from a summer ten years ago flood back. This was before the fire and my mother worked for the Ifrinns. I always helped during the summer, partly hoping to get a glimpse of Ronan who often came with his father, Hampton. The Keans and Ifrinns were business associates and friends, spending a lot of time together.
I remember being in the yard, clipping some roses when Ronan stopped to examine them.
"These are pretty," he'd said, leaning close to inhale their scent. His shoulder had brushed mine, sending electricity through my body. "Are you working with your mom this summer, Jenna?"
He'd known my name that day.
I remember how he'd lingered in the garden, asking about the different varieties. For those precious minutes, I wasn't just the gardener's daughter. I was someone whose knowledge he valued. He'd even smiled, a real one that reached his eyes.
There were other moments that summer. I was dealing with ivy growing up a trellis, and instead of walking past like usual, he steadied the ladder, telling me stories about using a trellis to sneak out of his house.
Or when he found me crying behind the greenhouse after Mom’s health first started to decline. He'd sat with me, awkward but saying if he could help us, he would. And after the fire, he didjust that, making sure Mom and I had a place to stay and a job, a job that has come to me now that Mom can’t do it.
Those glimpses of kindness made me believe there was more to him than his cold exterior. That maybe, just maybe, he saw me as more than staff. Now I have to acknowledge that in my youth and naivety, I imagined deeper meaning in simple acts of kindness. I’m still grateful to him for all he’s done for me and Mom, but I have to accept that he has no interest in me beyond caring for the garden and setting up floral arrangements.
“He’d talked to me a few times, but I read more into it,” I answer Debbie’s question. “But Blaise, he noticed me right away. He’s so sweet, and he kisses—” I stop myself, not sure if I want to go into more detail than I already have.
“Oh, no, you can’t say that and not finish the sentence,” Debbie teasingly admonishes me.
“He kisses really well.”
“Well, he’s definitely better than Mr. High-and-Mighty who can't remember your name half the time."
"Have you noticed that Blaise knows everyone's name, from the kitchen staff to the grounds crew? He treats people like they matter."
"Plus he actually asked you out instead of making you wait around hoping he'd notice you exist."
"Exactly." I smile, remembering how nervous I'd been when Blaise first approached me. "It's nice being with someone who wants to be with me too."
"That's what real love should be."
“It is real, Deb. When he said he loved me, I knew it was true.”
Again, her expression becomes concerned. “I know you’re feeling all the feels, Jen. But it’s okay to take things slow.”
“I know it seems fast and it is a little scary, but it’s also so wonderfully thrilling.” I laugh giddily. "Remember when we'dwatch those romantic movies, and I'd always say how unrealistic they were? How no one actually falls in love that fast or feels butterflies just from someone looking at them?"
"You're eating those words." Debbie grins.
"Completely. When Blaise looks at me, my knees go weak. When he touches me?—”
The kitchen door swings open and immediately, Debbie and I rise from our chairs, not wanting to be caught sitting on the job.
Ronan strides past us toward the office that Chef Marcus is currently working in. "We'll need the full spread for Saturday. Father's bringing in some important associates,” Ronan tells him.
A year ago, that voice would have melted me into a puddle. Now I notice how he speaks down to the staff, like we're beneath him.
"Of course, Mr. Kean." Chef Marcus nods. "The usual selections?"
"Add caviar this time. And make sure there's enough champagne. Staff needs to be in full dress." Ronan's eyes sweep the kitchen, passing over me like I'm part of the furniture. "These people expect the best. And the floral arrangements need to be impressive."
"I can handle those, Mr. Kean," I speak up, my voice steady. The old Jenna would have stammered.