“Okay then.” I nod decisively, then immediately start turning in a confused circle like I’ve forgotten how basic human interaction works.
“Clearly, you are in desperate need of immediate assistance, Keisha. Please retrieve your bag and close the shop properly. This painful display hurts to watch.”Sir’s voice carries distinct notes of feline exasperation.
I stop mid-spin and give the cat a pointed side-eye, then blink myself forcibly out of my ridiculous stupor. When I look back at Maceo, the man is watching me with the biggest, most genuinely entertained smile I’ve ever seen. I definitely don’t want to know what I must look like to him right now.
“I’m going to get my bag so we can leave,” I manage to fumble out with some semblance of dignity.
“I’ll be right here waiting,” he replies with a warm chuckle that makes my stomach do unnecessary things.
Oh Lord, Keisha. Please get yourself together before you embarrass yourself further.
I lock up the shop with hands that are steadier than I expected, and before I close the door, Sir steps decisively onto the cobblestone pavement.
“You’re actually leaving the shop?” I ask him mentally, surprised by this development.
“I have been confined to those four walls for far too long,”he replies with unmistakable determination.“The manor awaits my return, and there are things there that require my attention, like treats and pampering.”
I don’t question his reasoning further. After everything I’ve learned today about the true scope of Thorne family responsibilities, questioning Sir’s decisions seems like the fastest way to prove I’m not ready for any of this. So, if he needs self-care, then who am I to deny him.
We walk toward the local grocery store cheerfully named ‘The Grass Is Greener’ with an easy familiarity that genuinely surprises me. The late afternoon air is crisp and clean, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke from someone’s chimney and the earthy smell of fallen leaves. I predictably overbuy, my cart filling with enough ingredients to feed a small army rather than two people. Maceo carries the heavier bags without comment or complaint, his natural helpfulness so ingrained it seems unconscious.
When a car passes too close to the curb, he shifts subtly but decisively so that his solid frame blocks me from the street. He doesn’t appear to notice he’s done it, the protective gesture as natural as breathing. Yep, I can’t help my swoon.
People wave in passing as we make our way through the charming downtown area, their faces lighting up with genuinerecognition. Children pause mid-stride to stare openly with the unashamed curiosity of youth, while their parents smile at me with something bright and hopeful dancing in their expressions. Everyone seems genuinely happy to see me, as if my presence here means something significant to them personally.
“This feeling is never going to get old,” I murmur, still amazed by the warmth of their reception.
“What feeling?” Maceo asks, adjusting his grip on the grocery bags.
“The way they look at me,” I reply, watching an elderly woman wave enthusiastically from her front porch. “Like I’m someone who matters.”
He considers that observation carefully. “You mean with hope?”
“Hope for what exactly?” I ask with genuine curiosity.
He shakes his head with a mysterious smile. “In time, you’ll understand what you represent to this place.”
I stay quiet the rest of the short walk, my mind churning as I try to wrap my head around what it all truly means. The weight of expectation from an entire community, the way their eyes hold such reverence when they look at me, as if I’m some kind of answer to prayers I don’t even understand. The responsibility feels enormous, pressing down on my shoulders with each step we take toward the manor.
My old insecurities whisper their familiar refrains, that I’m not enough, that I’ll disappoint them all, that whatever they’re hoping for from me is bound to end in failure. The same voice that’s always told me I’m a dud, that something fundamental is missing from who I’m supposed to be. How can I be what they need when I’ve never even figured out what I am?
As we climb the familiar stone steps, I force myself to push those spiraling thoughts aside for now. There’s nothing I can do about their expectations at this moment, nothing I can solve byoverthinking it all. Right now, there are groceries to put away and dinner to cook, simple tasks that ground me in the present rather than drowning me in the overwhelming magnitude of whatever destiny apparently awaits.
The manor’s front door opens smoothly when we reach it. No dramatic fanfare or magical feast materializes to greet us. The house is clearly letting me take the lead here, and I’m profoundly grateful for its restrained welcome. I need the manor to just be a house right now, and of course it obliges my unspoken request with perfect understanding.
The calming, meditative effect of cooking takes hold of me immediately. Maceo helps without being asked, efficiently putting away groceries and setting out ingredients with the ease of someone comfortable in kitchens. Just me working with my own hands, creating something nourishing and real. Fresh pasta water comes to a rolling boil. Garlic and herbs brown gently in olive oil, filling the kitchen with mouth-watering aromas. A simple green salad gets tossed with bright lemon juice and the good olive oil I splurged on.
Sir observes the entire operation from his spot on the marble counter, looking like a supervisor reviewing kitchen technique. A small plate of premium tuna appears beside him, clearly courtesy of the house’s continued hospitality.
When I turn around to set the dining room table, I discover four place settings waiting instead of the eight elaborate settings that appeared yesterday. I smile despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach. This thoughtful house continues to surprise me. Thank God I’ve never learned how to cook for fewer than six people.
The expected knock comes just as I’m wiping my hands clean on a dish towel. I catch Maceo’s eye and he shrugs with exaggerated innocence, as if he has absolutely no idea who could possibly be knocking at this particular hour. I roll my eyesdramatically, making him laugh out loud. The rich sound rings through the spacious kitchen as I abandon him to answer the door.
I open the heavy front door to find Lucien standing on the porch with a bottle of deep red wine cradled carefully in one elegant hand. He’s changed from his earlier attire into something that looks like it stepped off a fashion magazine cover, a perfectly tailored charcoal jacket over dark jeans that probably cost an ungodly amount.
I smirk as I lean my weight against the door frame.
“I assumed you would require something suitable to accompany dinner,” he says with smooth confidence.
