The possibilities make my head hurt, so I give up figuring out how I got everything I wanted. All that matters is it’s here and I have a job and beautiful rooms in a gorgeous house.
Well… itwill bea gorgeous house as soon as I finish cleaning it.
If Titus doesn’t want me here, then I guess he’ll have to come out of his rooms and tell me. Until then, I’m going to do my darndest to show him I’m worth keeping around.
I think eggs Benedict could accomplish that.
4
Titus
For the second day in a row I have to make myself turn off the feed to my security cameras. I will get absolutely nothing done if I leave them on. All I’ll do is sit here and watch Mariah move around my house. Observe the strangely addictive sight of her as she goes about her day, making herself at home.
In my home.
I did leave the screen on while I responded to a few emails and touched base with my brothers. Long enough to make sure she got everything she wanted from the grocery. The hint of a smile I saw when she got to the boxes of butter was oddly gratifying. Made me consider placing another order to see if it would happen again.
But then my mother showed up, and I’m self-aware enough to know the last thing I need to hear is anything she has to say right now. I’m not necessarily pissed she brought Mariah in, but I’m also not exactly happy about it. So I flipped the switch and broke the spell. Did what I should have been doing in the first place and got to work.
I’m barely through the first report before there’s a soft knock on my door, a lot like the one last night that signified dinner. I must be harder up for actual food than I realized, becauseI immediately become Pavlov’s dog, salivating as I wait to make sure Mariah’s out of sight before rushing to see what she left on the tray outside.
I don’t usually eat breakfast. Not in the morning anyway. But that’s not because I’m not hungry. It’s just not worth the effort. Not when I can make a pot of coffee and power through.
Since someone else is making the effort though…
I quickly collect my morning meal and close the door, locking up before carrying it back to my desk. It’s served on the same tray as dinner was yesterday—which looks vaguely familiar, but I honestly have no clue where she found it—and smells just as appetizing.
I want to give myself a pat on the back for finding that grocery list last night when I went to restock my energy drink stash, because what I’m looking at now is fucking amazing. Mariah’s made eggs Benedict, some sort of seasoned sautéed potatoes, and a cup of fresh fruit topped with a sprinkling of pistachios and a drizzle of honey.
I know she can’t stay. I like being alone way too much for that to be an option. But if she could, I’d double her pay to make sure she wasn’t tempted to go anywhere else. Because this? This is fucking insane.
Since my breakfast requires use of both hands and I won’t be able to work anyway, I leave the monitor on and indulge my interest in my new private chef's activities. Mariah’s puttering around my kitchen now, cleaning up from cooking for me. Unless she ate really quickly, it doesn’t seem like she made any food for herself, and I don’t fucking like that. She can—and should—eat anything she wants. Surely my mother told her that.
I feel a little better when she splits an English muffin and pops it into the toaster. While she waits for it to brown, Mariah takes a cautious sip of a steaming beverage from…
Is that a fucking bowl?
A paper tab dangles out of one side, and I rack my braintrying to remember if I’ve ever seen any sort of mug in any of my cabinets. I’ve got the insulated cup I use, but other than that…
Blowing out a groaning sigh, I pull up the website I order from way more frequently than I should and typecoffee cupsinto the search bar.
The woman probably thinks I’m a fucking Neanderthal. No food. No coffee cups. Fucking squalor everywhere.
I’ve never felt bad about the way I live my life. It’s what I have to do to go on. But I do feel a little regretful that my way of living is affecting someone else. Someone who makes the best damn eggs Benedict I’ve ever tasted.
Scrolling through the displayed options, I pick a simple set of mugs, ordering two packages before sifting through the suggested items the algorithm serves me. A few of them are probably also needed, and soon I have a bunch of items in my cart. I’m sure there’s plenty more I'm missing, but at least it’s a start. Before the end of the day, Mariah will be able to drink her tea from a mug instead of a cereal bowl.
After checking out, my eyes drift back to the screen, watching a little too intently as my new chef nibbles at her English muffin. I would’ve expected someone who went to culinary school to love food, so it’s surprising she’s not enjoying her meal more. Maybe she’s just not a morning meal person. It would be a shame, because she makes one hell of a breakfast.
A breakfast so good I’m just finishing licking the fucking plate clean when my phone starts to ring.
“Yeah?” I answer Tobias’s call, tucking my cell between my shoulder and my ear as I carry the empty tray back to my door, quietly sliding it out into the hall before closing myself back in.
“What the fuck is up with our mother?” Tobias sounds a lot like I did yesterday, and I have to wonder what my mother could have done to elicit his reaction. It sure wasn’t the same thing she did to me. He’d be thrilled to have a personal chef. Happy as a hog in mud to have Mariah in his kitchen.
And for some reason, that chaps my ass.
“I’m gonna need you to be more specific.” Ever since we all accidentally forgot Thanksgiving dinner, our mother’s been a little squirrely. Ranting about the way she raised us and questioning our priorities. I wish I could say I don’t know what she wants from us, but I do. I also know I won’t be the one to give it to her.
