My mouth is hanging open.
Somehow, in just one day, this mess has become a real working kitchen.The idea of that has me grinning ear to ear.Of course this isn’t my home.Not my kitchen.Not my groceries.But thesearethe tools I need to do my job well, and I couldn’t be happier.
I can already tell it’s going to be a great day.
Jazzed from the coffee and the Supermarket Santa visit, I’m motivated to make the most of my cleaning time.I grab the footstool from the laundry room, collect the cleaning supplies I need, and slip on the latex cleaning gloves.I climb up and stand on the countertops to reach the highest cabinets.
I hear myself hum as I scrub, rinse, wipe, dry, and restock.Then I add the finishing touch of a wood treatment that makes the maple cabinet doors glow.
Working hard helps take my mind off the things I’d rather not examine too closely.Such as what Finn’s doing upstairs.In his bed.Maybe naked.His dark hair curled on the pillowcase.
And how his deep blue eyes burn into mine as he strokes my cheek and tells me he wants to make love to me.
Again.
And again.
I’m ridiculous.
This is my job.It’s a job I’m thrilled to have, the job of my dreams.So what if I’m crushing on my boss?It happens.So what if my boss might think I’m pretty?That happens, too.And there it is—the beginning and end of that story.
I lean over the kitchen sink and splash cold water on my face, and then go in search of the steam cleaner.I step outside in the first light of morning and scrub down the bistro table and chairs, then steam clean the living daylights out of the wrought iron surfaces.It’s quite satisfying.
I remember unearthing a heavy canvas tablecloth in a laundry room cabinet yesterday, so I get it, bring it outside, shake it out, and drape it over the bistro table.I also remember seeing some wildflowers growing along the edges of the ranch lane when I walked in, so I decide to wander outside and see what I can collect.I come back with an armful of long purple flowers that I think might be called Lupine, along with some yellow flowers that resemble daisies and a few purple-blue clusters that remind me of Finn’s eyes.
I retrieve the large ceramic pitcher I found in a lower cabinet near the sink and arrange the flowers, then set the pitcher in the center of the outdoor table.
It looks as pretty as a picture.
Two hours later, the kitchen is spotless, as is the back patio, the living room, foyer, hallway, downstairs half bath, laundry room, and mud room.I’m trying to decide what to clean next when Jasmine stumbles downstairs in her pajamas.It’s a cute cotton set with a sleeveless top and capri-length bottom dotted with pink ponies and rainbows.She yawns and stretches as she enters the kitchen.
“Hungry, Miss MacLaine?”
CHAPTER 23
Emma
Jasmine’s eyes fly wide.“Emma!You’re here!”
“Of course I am.”
“I’m so glad!”
I can tell she means it.That’s the thing about kids in her age group—at least those who have the love and security they need.They tend to say what they mean.The world hasn’t taught them it’s safer to do otherwise.
“Should I wake my dad to make breakfast?We probably still have some cereal, but I don’t know if there’s any milk.”
“I’m happy to make breakfast this morning.”
“You know how to cook?”
I shrug.“I get by.And how about you?Doyouknow how to cook?”
“I’m only eight years old.”
“That old?I can’t imagine being so grown up and not knowing how to bake fresh muffins for breakfast.”
Her eyes widen, and she seems to grow two inches.“Fresh muffins?Really?We can make those?”
