She sets one in front of me, then takes the seat to my left instead of across from me. This is relaxed and not romantic, she’s making it clear. She tucks one foot beneath her and pulls the other knee up slightly.
I look down at the plate. The pie is burnt around the edges. The steak leaking from the pastry looks dry enough to choke a man. The broccoli has been murdered, and the mashed potato looks lumpy as hell.
Wynter pokes at her food with her fork. “I don’t really cook much,” she mumbles.
“That much is obvious.”
Her head snaps up then she rolls her eyes.
I take a forkful of mash before she can say anything else. I hesitate, then force it into my mouth.
Christ. I chew on a lump then make myself swallow.
“Hmm,” I manage.
She narrows her eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Then she tries her own. Her face twists instantly. “Oh my god.” She drops her fork with a clatter. “How did I fuck up mashed potato?”
“Language,” I say automatically.
She lets out a breath that sounds halfway between a laugh and a groan, then shoves her plate away.
“Look, I didn’t even want to cook for you. Catherine basically bullied me into it. And she said she’d help, but what she did was write down the instructions . . . and I didn’t find them helpful at all.”
I glance at her, then at the food again, before pushing my own plate aside and pulling out my phone.
“What are you doing?” she asks miserably.
“Saving us both.”
I send a quick message to the chef downstairs then put my phone back on the table.
Wynter covers her face with both hands. “I cannot lose this job, Mr. Carmichael.”
“Ray,” I mutter. “You can call me Ray.”
She drops her hands and looks at me, all wide eyes and humiliation. “I know you don’t like me,” she blurts. “And I know you think I’m useless, but I’m trying. I am trying really hard to get this right, because I need this job more than you realise.”
I watch her for a silent minute as desperation rolls off her. I sigh. “I know.”
“I do have experience,” she says quickly. “I helped look after my mum before she died, and—”
“What did she die from?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Her expression softens. “Cancer.”
Silence stretches between us again.
“It’s not personal,” I say after a moment, my voice quieter than before. “I just want the best for Anika.”
“I know,” she says. “Catherine told me you use the best agency and you’re still not happy.” A tiny smile tugs at her mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m never going to be Catherine. But she’s only a phone call away, and if I’m doing something differently to how you want it done, just tell me.” She pauses. “Preferably without shouting.”
I glance up. Flour still dusts the sleeve of her top, and there’s a faint smear near her wrist. She’s exhausted, embarrassed, and clearly trying not to fall apart in front of me.
And she’s still fighting to stay.
“I don’t hate you, Wynter.” The words leave before I can reconsider them. Her lips part slightly. “I just don’t have the luxury of getting this wrong.”
