Page 38 of Not In The Contract

“Go ahead.”

She vaulted herself up the stairs and I made my way into the kitchen, itching to give my hands something to do while my mind rushed far ahead of me. I wasn’t used to the awkward tension that hung over my house, and I didn’t know how to diffuse it. But cooking soothed my anxiety and made it almost manageable.

I let my mind wander while my hands worked on autopilot, trying to figure out how to make this new, uncomfortable situation work for the next two months. Usually, I made the biggest leaps while cooking, but I relied on the monotonous task to untangle my twisted thoughts. The rhythmic thump of the knife on the chopping board settled me, and I sifted through possible conversation starters I could use.

“How stupid,” I muttered under my breath, scooping the diced vegetables into the pot steadily boiling on the stove.

I wasn’t alone for much longer as the echo of heels on the glass steps filtered through the otherwise silent house.

“Um, Alex?”

“In here!” I called over my shoulder. “Down the hall on the right.”

Her footsteps slowly grew closer, and I turned to find her staring at me in confusion.

“You’re all dressed up,” I noted, taking in her lithe silhouette in the knee-length dark red dress. The soft fabric wrapped snugly around her frame, snatched at her waist and tight around her hips.

“And you’re cooking.” She giggled. She took a few steps closer. “I think I might have misunderstood your offer for dinner.”

Something in my chest fluttered at the sound of her giggle and I turned back to the stove. “I’d rather eat at home,” I said, adding strips of chicken to the frying pan. “Cooking helps me relax.”

“Then I should probably change,” she said sheepishly.

“Don’t be silly,” I said, keeping my eyes on the chicken. “Dinner is almost done. Do you like chicken?”

“Sure,” she said.

The silence descended again and awkwardness prickled at the back of my neck.

“I expected you to have a whole host of staff working around the clock,” she admitted and I almost snorted.

“I can’t fault you for that assumption,” I said. “But I think you’ll find that I value privacy above convenience. Hiring a full staff complement just to run my house sounds wasteful.”

“I can understand that,” she hummed. “But youdohave staff, right? I can’t imagine cleaning all of this every day.”

“I do have staff,” I confessed, turning to pull two plates out of one of the cupboards. “But they go home to their families every day.”

“Can I do something in the meanwhile?” she asked, and I frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I could set the table?” she offered. “If you tell me where everything is.”

A surprised chuckle bubbled up my throat. “Sure,” I said. “The glasses are above that counter, and you can take those plates.”

I heard her shuffle behind me, the telltale clink of glass and ceramic bouncing around the quiet kitchen.

“And the dining room?”

“Right next door,” I directed.

She disappeared to set the table and left me alone with my churning thoughts. Ihatedthe twinge of awkward tension in my gut, and I despised the stilted small talk. There wasn’t much I could do about it. My mind was already full to bursting with future plans for projects and unscreened budgets. Besides, I was every bit the social pariah that Hayden teased me to be.

I finished up a little blindly, zoning out as I dished the food onto serving plates and carried them into the dining room.

“This is insane,” Devon murmured as I walked in.

“What is?” I asked, setting the dishes on the table.