I crumple up the note and toss it in the trash without a second look.
I don’t need his apologies. I don’t care anymore, not about cooking for Mr. Edgewood, not about impressing him. If I don’t care about what he thinks, he can’t hurt me again.
Kellen watches me go, saying nothing.
I spend the rest of the day finishing up in the utility room and then tackling the laundry room, funneling everything out through the sponge. Maybe I can send ham sandwiches up the stairs, but I have to do my job. I can’t truly give him a reason to let me go.
I work until I’m a sweating mess, then head back to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Two slices of bread. A big dollop of mayo that I don’t bother to spread around. A piece of ham and a piece of cheese, all of it slapped onto a plate.
Kellen studies me, then takes it away without a word.
I make myself something a little nicer for dinner, but just enough that I get the nutrients I need, and set some aside for Kellen, too.
When the plate returns, there’s yet another note.
The ham was divine. The American cheese, a note of mastery. Thank you.
-R
So now he thinks being funny will work. I throw the note away, wash the plate, and head out of the kitchen.
“Heisvery sorry,” Kellen says behind me. I pause at the doorway, but don’t turn around. “Most morose, if I’m to be honest.”
“What am I supposed to do with that?” I ask, clenching my hands into fists. “Why do I have to care about his feelings when he cared nothing for mine?”
Kellen’s mouth opens to speak, but then he closes it again, as if reconsidering.
“You are right.” He tips his head, offering me a faint smile. “Action over words.”
Exactly. I nod in agreement, then stride out.
rupert
Ham sandwiches.
It is, I must admit, a rather brilliant and exquisitely painful way to punish someone. The bread is plain white, the kind that tastes like sugar and baking soda, and the ham is little more than bulk-processed bologna. To call it ham is an insult to hams everywhere.
And worst of all, not a spread of butter to be seen.
Kellen is forced to admit that Ms. Austin is using his ingredients, which I rake him over the coals for even bringing into my home.
“I have already apologized to her,” I growl, stomping around my rooms while Kellen watches from the doorway. “What more does she want from me?”
“Perhaps she wants nothing from you.”
I glare at him over my shoulder. “That’s not an acceptable answer. There must besomething.”
Kellen shrugs. “She is hurt. Who knows how long you’ll pay for it? Perhaps forever.”
“Forever?!” I thunder. “She can’t do that. I’m… I’m her employer!”
“Saying that will surely improve your case,” Kellen says dryly.
I want to smash my fist through the coffee table, but Iknow that won’t help, either. The coffee table isn’t the one making me ham sandwiches and ignoring my apologies.
I grit my teeth and snarl again, storming across the room. There must be some solution for this, some way to express to her just how much I regret missing her dinner. It was my opportunity to meet her properly, and we could have had a lovely conversation while she showed me her skill and technique.
