I know I should test the spread to make sure it’s seasoned properly, but the thought of putting it in my mouth has my gag reflex attempting to engage. If it’s not great, Titus will just have to get over it.
After lightly toasting a bagel, I spread on the cream cheese, topping it with thinly sliced smoked salmon and a sprinkling of dill. I add another layer of cream cheese to the top half, stack it all together, and slice the sandwich in half. Peeling potatoes held no appeal, so he’s getting another fruit bowl.
Based on what I’ve seen, Titus is probably nutritionally deficient, so I’m sure he can use all the vitamins and minerals I can come up with.
I don’t even know whether he’s a coffee or tea guy, but one of the only appliances he possesses gives me a clue. So I go to work making him a cappuccino, once again wishing my stomach was more agreeable. Because I really fucking miss coffee. And I would love to take advantage of the high-end machine spitting out frothy goodness.
Titus’s breakfast assembled, I place everything on the tray I found shoved in one of the cabinets—still in its box—and carry it upstairs. Like the eternal idiot I am, a part of me still expects himto open his door and greet me. Thank me for putting so much work into filling his belly.
It doesn’t happen. Even though I linger a little longer than normal, the door stays closed.
I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me. That I may never come face-to-face with the first man I’ve ever cohabitated with. Which is posing a bit of a problem because I was really hoping to get him on my side before spilling the beans about Peanut to Deidre.
On the plus side, the money coming into my account doesn’t seem to be from Deidre, so maybe she’s not the one who will decide my fate. If that’s the case, maybe I can make Titus so many caramel cakes he’ll never even think about firing me for something as unimportant as an infant also living in his house.
I consider going back downstairs to clear away more of the mess, but I’m achy from yesterday and exhausted from pregnancy. So I go back to my room, set an alarm on my phone to wake me in time to make Titus his lunch, then fall into my bed and promptly pass out.
I don’t remember setting my alarm to make that noise.
I squint one eye open, but my cell phone isn’t lit up. It takes a few more seconds to register the source of the sound that woke me from a glorious nap.
It’s the freaking doorbell. Again.
“Holy shit, Titus.” I’m starting to think in addition to being a hermit, the guy has an online shopping addiction. Except that can’t be true, or he would have had food in his house when I got here.
After pulling on my robe, I trudge downstairs to the door, getting there just as the delivery guy’s pulling away. It’s not the grocery store’s logoed truck crunching over the gravel lane this time—which is good, because I don’t know where in the hell I’d put anything else—but a white, unmarked van.
My eyes fall to the array of boxes at my feet, zeroing in on the name they’re addressed to.
Mariah Copeland
Nobody knows where I live besides Deidre and Titus. My best friend Janie has the address of the main house, but until I got here, I didn’t know exactly where I would be working. And between morning sickness, cooking, cleaning, and putting away groceries, I haven’t even thought to update her.
I drag the stuff inside, leaving it in the entryway next to Titus’s shoes while I go retrieve a pair of scissors from the kitchen. I use one edge to cut through the tape of the first box and peer inside. What I see takes me aback.
Coffee cups. Two boxes of them.
“Huh.”
I open the next box. Inside is an electric kettle, a cute little teapot, and a set of tea infusers.
Another box has a complete set of HexClad cookware. There’s a Le Creuset cast iron Dutch oven in another. I also find a set of utensils containing almost every cooking tool known to man and a collection of dish towels and hot mats.
My eyes drift to one of the cameras Deidre pointed out on our walk-through. I knew there was a chance Titus checked them from time to time, but I assumed the system was similar to what was used at the inn. That he’d get a grainy, soundless view of me going about my boring day, cooking his meals and mopping his floors.
But the only way he could have known I needed these things was if he heard me complaining about everything his kitchen lacked.
Starting with the coffee cups.
And while I’m thrilled at the high-end equipment, it chaps my ass a little that he can see and hear me, but I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup if my life depended on it. It’s not really a fair sort of scenario. Plus, I wouldreallylike to get a read on him before I start confessing my sins to his mother.
And I think I have a pretty good idea of how to get him to come out of his room.
I go about the day like normal, washing and putting away all the beautiful things he got me and making him the best food I’m capable of. It’s a whole lot like yesterday.
Right up until dessert time.
Because if Titus wants dessert, I know he’s more than capable of getting it for himself.
