Page 16 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter twelve

Since living in New York, I’ve picked up plenty of odd jobs to make extra cash—anything from painting faces and donating plasma to completing online surveys about dish soap and answering shady Craigslist ads.

Well, the Craigslist thing only happened once.

Some guy in Brooklyn needed a “pretend fiancé” for a family gathering and paid me two hundred bucks plus travel to spend a couple of hours lying to his parents at their cabin on Lake Montauk.

It was an easy gig—but LuAnne freaked when she found out and made me promise to never answer anymore “murder-y Craigslist ads.”

And yet, of all the odd things I’ve done to cover rent, domestic household errands with Adrian Ellis just may take the cake—and my sanity.

“I wasn’t aware human beings could survive solely on high-sodium frozen meals, tortilla chips, and noodles slathered with butter,” Adrian drawls, staring down at the frozen pizza in my basket like it’s personally wronged him.

Twenty-seven minutes, I think. He made it twenty-seven minutes and two frozen aisles before commenting on my diet.

I’m more than prepared for a snarky comment or two, though. “Well, first of all,” I say. “Buttered noodles are a delicacy—”

“Of who? Picky eaters?”

“And I’m moving soon, so I don’t want to commit to anything like—”

“A vegetable?” He chimes in. “You don’t want to sign your life away to a head of broccoli, I suppose. Or—God forbid—an artichoke.”

I roll my eyes. “Plus, my fridge is broken, so selection is limited for the time being. Either frozen or shelf-stable.” I toss a can of chicken noodle soup—the name brand one too, since I’m currently making four figures an hour—into the basket he’s tucked under his arm.

Adrian scoffs.

“Seriously?” I raise an eyebrow. “You’ve got an issue with chicken noodle soup too?”

“Canned chicken noodle soup,” he corrects me. “That’s an important distinction.”

“Well, I’d love to be able to afford all the fresh, in-house organic soups you probably get at whatever gourmet market you do your grocery shopping at, but alas—” I toss another can of soup into the basket.

“It’s Campbell’s for us plebeians.” I pause; my comment triggering another thought. “Wait, where do you grocery shop?”

I try to picture Adrian perusing the well-stocked shelves of Butterfield Market or Citarella or anywhere else you’re going to pay upwards of twenty dollars for blueberries, but the image doesn’t quite fit.

He shrugs. “I don’t.”

“You don’t?” I stare up at him, incredulous. “You don’t go grocery shopping?”

He shakes his head.

“So, you just eat out for every meal? Just Michelin-starred restaurants for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?”

I’m mostly teasing, but Adrian answers seriously. “Of course not. I have a private chef. He is Michelin-starred, though.”

I scoff. “You’re joking.”

“I don’t use Amadeo as often as I did during residency,” he explains. “Now, it’s mostly for meal prep during the week. On my off-weekends, I prefer to do the preparation myself, but he’s still the one sourcing the ingredients.”

Oh, he’s not joking.

Should I be surprised that Adrian just has a private, Michelin-starred chef—and probably a whole team of award-winning housekeepers too—at his beck and call? Probably not. Is it absurd? Definitely.

Does it make me hot with envy? Also yes.

And it’s not just the fact that Adrian gets to outsource every boring, tedious, or undesirable part of his day that piques my interest— it’s the freedom.

The ease.

The ability to have whatever I want whenever I want—even if that desire is as ridiculous as having a Michelin-starred chef cook me breakfast. The ability to make decisions without tallying up every potential consequence for my short-term and long-term financial stability.

The ability to create art for the sake of just creating—and not because I’ve got to sell it.

I want that.

I want that so badly that I feel this grocery aisle actively shrinking under the weight of my desire.

I exhale, afraid he’ll discern the jealousy on my face. “Uh, I think I’m good in this aisle.”

I stride a little too quickly to the candy aisle—not that I really need anything from it.

Besides breathing room.

And I do just that, pretending to tediously decide between different types of gummy worms on the shelf in front of me. “I’m surprised you don’t have a snarky comment about processed sugar or something,” I call out to Adrian, but when I turn, I find him at the other end of the aisle.

Staring up at the hard candies with more attention than anyone has ever given hard candies.

“You didn’t really strike me as a Werther’s person,” I tease.

He doesn’t respond, and it’s only now I notice the tightening of his shoulders.

Is he upset?

About…the candy selection?

I follow his line of sight. “Fruit drops? You like those?” I can’t say I’ve ever seen the metal tin can before, but…

Adrian is still looking at the candy, his expression unreadable. “No,” he answers, the word clipped and lacking the lightness of our earlier interactions.

Okay.

My brows furrow, unsure of what I’m missing here. “Well, you’re just giving them a lot of consideration for something you don’t like.”

“It’s…” He shakes his head and glances down at his loafers. “It’s just sparking a memory for me. Something I’d forgotten about.”

I don’t want to overstep, and judging by his clenched jaw, it’s not a good one. So, I move back, intending to give him the same breathing room I needed a few moments ago, when he quietly volunteers—

“It’s my mother.”

My brows rise with surprise. “Your mother?”

That is not at all where I thought this was going.

He’s staring so hard at the candy it’s a wonder it doesn’t combust. “She always had this same tin can on the counter, and sometimes, I’d ask for one—but she’d always say no.

” He tilts his head to the side, as if the memory is actively coming back to him now.

“I could only have them right before punishments.” A pause.

“She’d dissolve one in a glass of juice.

I had to drink the whole glass too—or she’d tell me it didn’t count. "

My brow furrows. “That sounds like a pill, not candy.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, and I catch Adrian’s eyes narrowing, I realize—

Oh.

Oh.

He turns away, his smile grim. “I stopped asking after a while.”