My gut is in knots as I head to the fridge, already bracing myself for the familiar sight of empty shelves.
I pull open the fridge and stop short, staring. Utterly dumbfounded.
The fridge is…well stockedwould be an understatement.Fullfeels like an understatement. It is practically overflowing. There are a half-dozen varieties of milk and cream, neat piles of fruit, bottles of juice and sparkling water, an absurd amount of different types of cheese. Ripe red tomatoes and fresh green lettuce, a variety of bell peppers. Bundles of herbs and stacks of perfectly marbled steaks, a rack of lamb, an entire rotisserie chicken. All of it neatly arranged and fresh.
At the bottom is a small drawer containing vials of red liquid, neatly labeled with a date. That’s all thatheneeds to sustain himself, so the rest… must be for me.
I can’t stop staring.
“Good evening.”
I startle at the voice and whirl around to see Claude leaning against the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, smiling at me.
I point at the fridge.
He looks at it, and then back at me, head tilting to one side. “Did I forget something?”
“No! Claude, this is…” I throw up my hands. “How much do you think I eat?”
He blinks. “I have no idea. And I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got everything I could think of.”
“This is way too much! I can’t possibly eat it all before it goes bad.”
He shrugs. “I’ll toss whatever you don’t use.”
“No! That’s so…” I fumble for words. “Wasteful.”
“If it’s for you, it’s not wasted.” Still smiling, he crosses the kitchen to the espresso machine, which I failed to notice before. It’s so shiny, it must be new. “How do you take your coffee?”
I sigh, massaging my temples. “I can make it myself.”
“Again you think me incapable?” He’s already taking a mug from the cabinet.
“No! I just…” I cross the kitchen and try to grab the mug from his hands. He holds it above his head, out of my reach, and looks down at me quizzically. “Claude,” I sigh, stepping back and folding my arms over my chest. “This isn’t necessary. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can,” he says, and sets the mug below the way-too-fancy machine, his long fingers darting over buttons too quickly for me to follow.
I lean back against the counter, feeling aggravated for reasons I can’t put into words.
“You don’t need to do all this,” I mumble, feeling like a petulant child but unable to shake the discomfort.
“I know,” he says. And then, again, “How do you take your coffee?”
So I end up sitting at the dining table, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that is sweet with just a touch of cream, exactly how I like it. When I asked for yogurt for breakfast, thinking that was a simple option, Claude made me a parfait, layered with granola and fresh berries.
I take a bite and sigh. It’s perfect. All of this is so perfect that it sets my teeth on edge. Nobody’s ever taken care of me like this, and it gives me an uncomfortable itch beneath my skin. It’s like I’m being a burden, even though I know I didn’t ask for any of this. Which makes me feel horrendously ungrateful, and undeserving, and uncomfortable. Along with making me fear that he will expect more from me than I can possibly give.
Claude is watching me from across the table, just like he did at dinner, so I force a smile even though my throat is tight.
“Thank you,” I say. My lack of enthusiasm feels like another failure on my part. I try to shrug it off and eat as much as I can manage—which is about half of what he prepared me. “So you’re painting today? Do you want me to…?”
“Yes,” he says, even though I’m not quite sure what I was asking. “May I drink from you? For… inspiration?”
“Of course,” I say, my heart already pounding in anticipation. I set my napkin aside and walk to him, as I did last night. Again, I sit in his lap and surrender myself to the sweet sharpness of his bite.
Could I ever get used to this sensation? It seems impossible that every time should ravage my senses the same way, and yet…here I am, biting back a whimper as Claude drinks from my wrist.
My only solace is that I’m not the only one affected. As he sets me on my feet, there’s a fresh, flushed look about him, my blood lending color to his lips and cheeks. And his eyes are bright, pupils so large, he looks almost drugged.
