Was he my dad’s spy? What did he know? Or was he actually just here for the chef position? Then he’d move on to his next gig next month, maybe cooking for some celebrity.
“Here, let me.”
I startled when Knox took the last box from me, my palette knives and mixing medium tucked away under a couple of my drop cloths.
His fingers brushed against mine, and I jerked away at the warmth.
I met his eyes, and that furrow was back, with one eyebrow raising higher than the other.
“You alright?” His voice was low, cautious, deep in a way that I could feel it in my ribcage.
He was being gentle with me, and I hated it.
Well, most of me hated it.
“Yeah,” I exhaled, the shakiness of it giving away my lie, “I’m fine. Sorry. And thank you. You don’t have to help me with this.”
I cleared my throat and straightened my own posture. Represent the family properly, Lucy. “That’s not in your job description.”
Just as open as I thought he’d been, his eyes hardened, his posture stiffened, and he shut down faster than I could blink.
“Right.” Any softness in his voice had disappeared, replaced by a barely concealed anger. “I’ll be in the kitchen then.”
He turned and strode away from me, carrying the last of my art supplies. The things that were most precious to me.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, certain I was going to hear the slam of that box on the ground in his anger. He didn’t have the same concern for my things as I did, of course, and I’d clearly offended him.
But no harsh sound ever came. Only soft clattering came from beyond the hallway a moment later, Knox opening cupboards and moving dishes.
I just listened to it for a moment, him moving around my kitchen. I hardly used it, so he would be disappointed. He’d have to be given the family credit card for anything he wanted to stock the kitchen with, because I doubted that he would approve of my own meager groceries.
“Mr. Sterling?”
I turned, and the movers stood before me, looking disapproving, too.
“Yes?”
“We’re finished,” one of them said in a tone that clearly stated he’d said that already and I hadn’t heard him.
“Oh, of course. Here, let me walk you out.”
They wanted money, of course. They’d been paid, or they wouldn’t have made their delivery, but tipping was customary. Did a family even have money if they didn’t show it by tossing it in their wake?
I walked them to the door and slipped them three twenties from my wallet.
An eye roll. Not enough.
I gave them another two, and they left as quickly as they’d come. Silent, too.
I closed the door with a soft click behind them and rested my forehead against it, my hands shaking and my heart racing.
When I’d finally peeled myself away from the door, I saw Knox bustling through my kitchen.
He was dressed casually, in a tight ¾-length shirt and jeans, something I wasn’t used to with the chefs who had worked for my family before, but I liked it. There was something comforting about not seeing a line of employees in my home, but just another person. It wasn’t just me living in silence—not for the month, at least—because there was another person who would be making noise, too.
Then I glanced at my new art corner.
It was neat, even if it was in stacks taking over the corner by the double doors that led to my balcony. Knox clearly had cared enough to settle things together and not stack things with delicate paintbrushes or loose canvas fabric. Even Jackson’s cat tree was settled neatly in the corner, any loose toys tucked in the tiny hammock draping between platforms. I hadn’t even heard Knox move it.
