All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(17)
“Grab your own drink from the fridge,” she heard from around a corner, and she followed his voice to a gorgeous, white-tile-and-marble kitchen with gold accents.
After plucking a sleekly curved bottle of grapefruit soda from the refrigerator’s gleaming depths, she closed the heavy door and turned back to him.
Alex stood bent in front of a built-in microwave, his elbows resting on the marble countertop as he watched a glass container spin inside.
“Hope you like chicken enchiladas. If you don’t, you’re objectively wrong, because chicken enchiladas are fucking delicious. Especially Dina’s.” He pursed his lips. “Still, there might be a couple other prepared meals in the fridge, if you’re determined to be contrary and incorrect. Shit, I should have put a top over this. It’s popping now, and—”
He opened the microwave door and touched the side of the glass container with his fingertip. “They’ll still be lukewarm in the middle, but let’s throw caution to the wind and eat them anyway. Apologies for my culinary laxity, Nanny Clegg. I know you must be scandalized.”
She leaned against a counter and crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you ever run out of words?”
“Nope.” He popped the p in emphasis. “I remain consistently delightful at all times.”
Once he grabbed a marble trivet to put beneath the dish, she followed him into the dining nook. And despite what he’d just told her, he hardly said a word after serving up enchiladas onto both plates. Too hungry to waste time speaking, she supposed. Or maybe he was simply as tired as she was, because he was slumping a bit now, his elbows again propped before him.
The semi-heated enchiladas were as delicious as advertised, spicy and saucy and full of tender meat and beans, but the continuing silence nagged at her, for some reason.
Not that she missed hearing him talk. But—
“Is Dina your housekeeper?” Two forkfuls left of this tortilla. She was already eyeing a second helping. “Or your cook?”
“Both. Also a fucking godsend. I’d be lost and living in squalor without her.” He put down his utensils and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Weekdays, she fixes breakfast and dinner, and I usually have a sandwich or leftovers for lunch. She leaves me meals to reheat over the weekends, as you can see.”
“So she works Monday through Friday?”
He nodded. “She’ll arrive bright and early tomorrow morning. I emailed her a couple of days ago, and since the production would pay her handsomely for the extra work, she’s happy to keep the guesthouse clean and prepare food for you too, but that’s your choice. Your quarters have a small kitchen if you’d rather cook instead, and there are basic cleaning supplies under the bathroom sink. I’m supposed to let Dina know what you decide as soon as possible.”
No housework. No cooking, unless she wanted to do it. How would that even feel?
“Oh, wow. I would love for someone else to cook and dust and …” Tiredly, she rubbed her temples. “No. No, I shouldn’t have her take over tasks I can do myself.” Dammit. “Please tell her thank you for the offer, but—”
“I changed my mind.” Without even looking at her, Alex served himself another enchilada. “Her sister just had a baby, and Dina wants to start a college fund for her new niece. She jumped at the prospect of additional pay. Whether you want her help or not, you have it.”
The right thing. She needed to do the right thing, but the right thing was so hard to determine when she was so tired.
“Okay.” She tapped her fork against her plate. “In that case, I’ll still clean up after myself, but she can tell the production she’s doing the extra work and get the money.”
He frowned, looking … upset. At her. But why?
“If you said that to Dina, she’d be offended, and I wouldn’t blame her. Why are you assuming she’d lie about her work for more money?” Exhaling through his nose, he sat back. “Do you think I’m browbeating her into this? Or that I don’t pay her sufficiently for her time and labor? Because I can assure you, Lauren, I’m not, and I do. My mom cleaned hotel rooms for a few years, and I know how hard the work is.”
Hey, Lauren, if you ever need a loan or something, let me know. Those generous tips at the hotel restaurant. The wad of bills he’d pressed into their driver’s hand.
No, he wasn’t miserly with his money.
“You can talk to her yourself tomorrow. Make sure she’s not overworked and underpaid. She likes what she does, and she’s well compensated for it. She had a real choice in the matter, and she wanted to take care of the guesthouse and cook for you.” Beneath that beard, his jaw was jutting forward. “Maybe you’ll believe her, even if you don’t believe me.”
“It’s not—” How the hell had she messed this up so badly? “Alex, wait.”
With a loud scrape of his chair against the gleaming hardwood floor, Alex had hurdled to his feet and was stomping into the kitchen, his plate in his fist.
She jumped to her feet too, sick to her stomach. “Alex. Alex. Listen to me. That’s not it.”
Even when she followed him into the kitchen, he ignored her and continued scraping his half-eaten enchilada down the garbage disposal. His shoulders had become hard bunches of affronted muscle under the thin cotton of his tee, and that only made her stomach churn harder.