I wonder where that path goes, or if Mr. Edgewood ever walks it. Perhaps I’ll spot him sometime from my window when he doesn’t expect me to be watching.
My curiosity about him grows, especially since his notes became… sweeter? Almost flirty? And I don’t know what to make of the gifts he left me last night. They were truly thoughtful and didn’t appear to have any strings attached.
Though you never really know. People hide their true selves, and sometimes the mask can be quite convincing.
I shouldn’t be such a cynic. That wasn’t me, not before. I was always looking ahead, always seeing the best in people. Maybe with enough time away from Andy, that could be me again.
But for now, I need to protect myself.
Given that it’s Saturday morning, I’m not sure if Mr. Castle expects me to show up for work at the usual time. I decide to shower and get dressed just in case.
Inside the bathroom, I find it’s already stocked with everything I need: shampoo, conditioner, body wash, body lotion, even a hair dryer. It’s like Mr. Castle raided an Ulta and deposited it here. The shower water is amazingly hot, and all the bath products smell like flowers. By the time I’m finished, I’m turning pruny all over.
Finally, I emerge from the warm shower and towel off with the most luxurious towel I’ve ever touched. My few items of clothing, which I squirreled away in the car along with the pillow and blanket, look pathetic inside a single top drawer of the six-drawer dresser. I wish I could’ve leftwith more, but it was all I could take without getting caught.
Still, I put on what I have that’s clean, vowing to ask Mr. Castle about using the washer and dryer down in the utility rooms.
I’m here in the manor now, so I might as well see if I can cook breakfast. There are almost always ingredients for pancakes lying around in someone’s pantry, so once I’m in the kitchen, I get to mixing up a batch. I’ve never cooked breakfast here before, and I’m not sure if Mr. Edgewood will want any, but I make enough for three people, anyway.
The smell of cooking bacon must draw in Mr. Castle, who I’m surprised to find is dressed in a t-shirt and running pants. I gape at him, sure that I’m seeing some kind of ghost. I thought Mr. Castle didn’t wear anything but his usual gray suit with the black tie.
Then he does something even stranger, and grins.
“You know, I do live here, too,” Mr. Castle says, sliding onto one of the stools at the kitchen island. “I just went on a jog.”
He is fit and slender, so I’m not surprised to hear he’s a runner.
“Of course you live here,” I say, trying to recover myself. “I made breakfast. Would you like some?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
It’s odd to see him so casual, so off-the-clock, but I think I like it. There are fewer barriers between us this way.
“I made some for Mr. Edgewood, too.” I put two pancakes on a plate, slap a pat of butter between each one, and then drizzle some maple syrup on top. And then, for my final touch, I pull out the nitro canister I found under one of the counters and spray whipped cream on the pile of pancakes in the shape of a heart, with a big, fat strawberry in the middle.
Mr. Castle’s eyes are round as I add some bacon, cover it with a cloche, and hand it to him. Then he disappears, taking Mr. Edgewood his meal, before coming back to chow down.
It’s only after Mr. Castle has finished eating his own plate of pancakes that he speaks to me again.
“I think I could get used to you making breakfast, too,” he says, pushing the empty plate away. “But I’m going to have to run twice as much.”
“I also make croissants, Mr. Castle, so don’t get too comfortable.”
He smirks at this. “Call me Kellen.”
Are we on a first-name basis now? I smile and offer him a hand. “I’m Peony. I know you know, but…”
“It’s good to meet you, Peony.” After shaking my offered hand quickly, Kellen picks up his plate and carries it to the dishwasher, but I try to stop him. “No, let me clean up. It’s not your job today, and I’m grateful that you cooked for us at all.”
Properly chastised, I leave him to tidy up the mess I made.
“If you want to help, though, you can get Mr. Edgewood’s plate,” he says. “He leaves it outside his door.”
Task in hand, I wander down to the east hall, where the color scheme is darker and moodier. Sure enough, the silver plate with the cloche sits on a table outside the door to his quarters. Underneath the cloche is the note I expected—and perhaps hoped—to find.
What an unexpected treat. I hope the bed was to your taste. Please, take the day off today and tomorrow. The grounds are lovely for a stroll.
-R
