She’s definitely going to earn it.
3
Mariah
I’m almost finished clearing off the final counter in Titus’s kitchen when someone rings the doorbell. I freeze, uncertain what I should do. I’m not sure what the etiquette is when you’re in someone else’s house. But Deidre did say Titus rarely comes out of his rooms during the day. And technically, I live here now too.
Wiping off my hands, I go to the entryway. And the pile of shoes littering it. I shoot the mess a glare, scowling at the collection of boots and running shoes, my left eye twitching.
Cleaning the kitchen had to be done. There was no way I could cook in it the way it was. The shoes—and all the other crap piled around—won’t technically get in the way of me doing my job.
But it will drive me absolutely bonkers.
I do my best to ignore the clutter, opening the door and hoping whoever’s on the other side doesn’t judge me for the state of the house. The man smiling at me from the stoop has on a hat bearing the logo of a national grocery chain and a whole bunch of bags in his hands. “I’ve got your grocery delivery.”
“Thank God.” I’ll have to call Deidre and let her know how grateful I am that she handled this, because I’m exhausted. Goingto the store tonight was the last thing I wanted to do. “I’ll take those.”
I collect the bags he’s carrying and take them into the kitchen, then meet him back on the porch. I’m sure he’d carry them inside if I asked, but the thought of anyone seeing this place and assuming I’m the one who let it get like this has heat creeping over my skin.
I have nothing to be embarrassed about, but Titus sure does. When I see him later tonight, I’m going to make sure he knows it too.
Once all the bags are unloaded, the delivery man on his way to his next stop, I start unpacking. I’m barely halfway through the first one before I start to get suspicious.
This seems… odd. The contents aren’t at all what I would expect someone like Deidre Bradshaw to order.
Or anyone who knows how to fry an egg for that matter.
“Seriously?” I scoff when I pull out a pack of ramen noodles and a plastic clamshell pack of donuts.
No way did Deidre order this stuff. There’s nothing wrong with donuts and ramen, but I’m a whole-ass trained chef. Capable of making freaking amazing shit. I whipped up a very loose interpretation of a muffuletta sandwich with nothing but a leftover charcuterie board, for God’s sake. Anyone who knows anything about cooking would have at least ordered the basics. Olive oil, butter, eggs, chicken, steak, vegetables. Something for me to work with.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I reach a bag that’s nothing but cereal and my head falls back on a groan. I pull in a deep breath, then slowly blow it back out.
I knew this job wasn’t going to live up to my expectations. Nothing does because I’m a freaking Pollyanna wearing rose colored glasses.
But I for sure expected to have access to butter.
“This is fine.” I start opening drawers, in search of somethingto write with and on. My phone is up in my room and I’m too tired to go get it.
Especially now that I know I don’t have butter.
After rifling through a few spots, I finally come across a notebook and a pen in the room with all the electronics—an office maybe? Flipping to a new page, I start my list, writing the most important item at the top.
Butter
The next hour is spent taking inventory of what I now have, putting it all away, and then coming up with a plan for stocking the pantry and fridge. I’m basically starting fresh, and getting everything I need will cost an arm and a leg, so I’ve got to pace myself?—
Wait.
I snort. If he can afford my salary, I’m sure Titus Bradshaw can spare the cash to set me up properly. So instead of just the basics, I make a list of everything I needandeverything I want.
Because if I’m going to clean this dude’s house—which I already see happening because it’s making my eye twitch—I’m going to have fun cooking while I do it.
Once I’ve come up with as many items as possible, I tear the page off and set it in a spot where I can grab it on my way out the door in the morning. Surely by then I’ll have the opportunity to talk with my new boss and figure out how he wants to handle the purchase of ingredients and any tools or appliances I need.
Right?
I assumed Titus would bring his dinner tray down when he was finished working and introduce himself. Instead, he just slid it outside his door, leaving it in the same spot he found it. Which is fine. I’m here to cook, not to socialize.
