But Mariah doesn’t roam. Everything she does is purposeful. Intentional. From the way she carried all of her belongings in, to her dedication to cleaning the kitchen, down to the perfect execution of every meal she makes.
My lunch—delivered precisely at noon—is salad. Normally, I would be a little unimpressed by a pile of vegetables, but Mariah has even found a way to make lettuce appealing. The bed of greens is scattered with pecans and dried fruit and crumbles of goat cheese. It’s topped off with a juicy, flavorful, perfectly sautéed chicken breast.
That alone would have been one of the best meals I’ve ever had, but she served fresh, warm slices of homemade bread alongside it.
Before I’ve even finished eating, I’m sending her more money. The woman’s going to bankrupt me before the week’s out, and I’m not sure I’ll care as long as she keeps baking bread.
Dinner is equally amazing. Steak medallions with some sort of wine-ish gravy drizzled over them. Next to them is a pile of charred broccoli, along with the fluffiest fucking baked potato I’ve ever met, topped with cheese, sour cream, and chives.
And more of that fucking bread. It’s not warm this time, but still just as freaking good as I remembered.
I’m sitting at my desk, congratulating myself for managing to survive the bulk of the day without watching my new chef's activities, when a sense of awareness creeps over my skin.
Mariah’s outside my door again. I don’t know how I know, I just do. She’s probably sick of being ignored. Tired of cooking for some guy she’s never met. Cleaning my nasty house without so much as a ‘thank you.’
To be fair, I did thank her with money. That has to count for something.
I flick on the monitor, expecting to see Mariah preparing to knock on my door, but the hall is empty. I shove down the wiggle of disappointment in my gut as my eyes lock on yet another tray.
This one isn’t loaded with food like the others. There’s just asingle plate and drinking glass. I can’t quite identify what she’s brought me—even through the best security cameras on the market—and curiosity makes it impossible for me to put off finding out.
I retrieve the tray, pulling in a deep breath of sweet scented air as I hold it in front of me. The thick slice of layered cake is brownish, but not dark enough to be chocolate. It doesn’t smell like cinnamon, so it can’t be a spice cake.
Carrying it back to my desk, I break off a large chunk of fluffy, sugary, goodness and shove it into my mouth.
Holy. Fucking. Hell. What is this wizardry? It’s rich and buttery and the frosting practically melts the second it hits my tongue. I plow through the serving she’s given me then drop my fork to the tray so I can pick up the plate. I lick it clean like the greedy bastard I am, wanting to get every last taste.
I’ve never had anything that good in my life, which is saying something since my mother has her own cooking showandcooking magazine. I grew up eating the kind of shit most people only have in restaurants, and already I can say without a doubt Mariah’s food is the best I’ve ever had.
And maybe I’ll tell my mother that one day. She deserves it for going behind my back and hiring someone to live in my house.
Even though I’m not as mad about it as I was yesterday.
5
Mariah
So apparently Titus only comes out of his room to steal grocery lists and eat cake.
Lots of cake.
My caramel cake was always a big hit when I made it for the people who stayed at the Inn at Red Cedar Ranch, so I figured he would like it. I did not figure he would eat half of it before I woke up this morning.
I’m going to take it as a sign he’s not totally miserable having me here. I was starting to wonder when I still hadn’t seen his face last night. Half of me expected to wake up this morning to an email letting me go.
Instead, I woke up to a bank account way fuller than I remember it being, and half a caramel cake.
“Weirdo.” I close the refrigerator, and start assembling today’s breakfast.
Cooking for one person is very different from cooking for a bunch of people, and it’s been nice to get to be creative again. To be challenged. I’d gotten into a rhythm running the kitchen at the inn, but a rhythm can sometimes feel like a rut, and that’s kind of where I was. When you cook for a group ofpeople, you have to keep things basic. Simple. Make food most people will enjoy eating.
When you’re cooking for one, you don’t have those limitations. Especially when the one you’re cooking for doesn’t seem inclined to come tell you whether or not he likes what you’re making. That means Titus Bradshaw is going to get what I want him to have, and if he doesn’t like it…
He can sit in his room and cry about it.
Since I’m not feeling great this morning, I decide to go with something simple. Mixing up a capered cream cheese in between bites of cracker and sips of ginger tea, I try to scrounge up a little interest in food myself, but it’s just not there.
“You’re really cramping my style, Peanut.”
