She couldn't.
Six months was an eternity when you spent it fighting someone who'd already mapped every possible move.
I headed toward the kitchen, already planning the evening.
Dinner first. Civil. Almost normal.
Then boundaries.
Rules she'd resist and learn, anyway.
Then bed.
Not to fuck her—not tonight.
Tonight was about proximity. About making her understand that privacy ended the moment she signed. That her body, her space, her sleep—all of it belonged to the contract now. Belonged to me.
My phone buzzed again.
I ignored it.
The only person I needed to hear from stood trapped in my bedroom, hating me with every breath.
Perfect.
The scent hit me before I reached the kitchen.
Garlic. Rosemary. Something rich and savory that made my stomach remind me I'd skipped lunch.
Maria stood at the counter, plating with the precision she'd honed over thirty years of professional cooking. Salt-and-pepper hair pulled back, apron spotted with evidence of work I'd never see.
She glanced up when I entered. Smiled the way she always did—warm but not familiar. Professional.
"Perfect timing." She gestured toward the island where two plates waited. "Herb-crusted chicken. Roasted potatoes with thyme. Green beans almondine." A pause while she adjusted garnish I couldn't distinguish from perfect. "The vegetables are from the farmer's market. Should be good."
Should be. Like she'd ever served anything less.
"Smells incredible."
She nodded, already wrapping leftovers with the efficiency of someone who'd learned not to waste motion.
I moved to the cabinet, pulled out the cash I kept separate from everything else. Peeled off twice her usual rate plus extra.
"Storm's coming in." I set the bills on the counter between us. "Get home safe. Take tomorrow off."
Her hands stilled on the containers.
"Mr. Jones, that's?—"
"Not negotiable." I kept my voice easy. Firm. "Roads are going to be bad. I don't need you risking your neck."
She looked at the money. Back at me. Something shifted in her expression—gratitude mixed with the kind of knowing that came from raising four kids and spotting bullshit from miles away.
She pocketed the cash without counting it.
"Thank you." She untied her apron, folded it with the same care she brought to everything. "There's extra in the fridge if you need it. Instructions are on the containers."
Like I couldn't reheat food. Like I was still the rookie who'd burned water his first week in the house.
