Page 12 of Never Let You Go

Of course he would

On the upside

did you unpack your shit yet

No

When you do you’ll thank me

What for

I threw something in there

Awww so sweet what is it

something handy

thx xoxo

gtg

<3

I throw on my best-fitting pair of jeans and a dark green cashmere sweater and examine myself in the mirror above the sink. I dab some concealer under my eyes and declare myself presentable. The mouthwatering smell of a home-cooked meal wafts all the way to me, and my stomach growls.

It dawns on me that I’m invading these people’s privacy, living under their own roof, and didn’t even think to bring a little thank you gift. I know I’m not really a guest, and I’m here to work under conditions that were pretty much dictated to me, but I suddenly feel self-conscious of my presence within this home.

I need to do everything in my power to stay out of their way and not intrude in their daily life. Especially given the very inappropriate thoughts that went through my mind when I first met Christopher. Granted, I didn’t notice a wedding band, but then again, I wasn’t specifically looking for one.

I’m vaguely ashamed of myself.

On my way down, I glance at the second floor. The large hallway is lined with several doors, all closed except the one at the end where a child’s bed is softly lit.

The bakery is bathed in a warm semi-darkness. I run my hand on the soft wooden counter as I circle to the back of it. I push open the door behind the register and find myself in a large, brightly lit room with metallic prep tables, ovens, fridges, and baking racks glistening. It looks very professional, in stark contrast with the rustic warmth of the bakery.

“Over here,” Christopher calls as a door in the back opens, framing his silhouette.

My stomach flutters. I startle and steady myself on a cold prep table, turning my face away from him. “This is very impressive.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice lab. Can’t complain. I got a good grant.” He smirks. “Come on in.”

I step into a vast kitchen anchored around a large, solid pine table. A child’s drawings are taped to most of the cabinets. The smell of sautéed onions and subtle herbs comes from a creamy stew simmering on the stovetop, reminding me again how famished I am. The kitchen extends into a larger space that is mostly dark right now, bathing in the bluish, flickering light of a television set.

“Skye!” Christopher calls out.

I tug on my sweater, curiosity eating at me. A woman who cooks like a goddess (I don’t need to taste the stew to know it will be heaven), lives in a storybook village, and is married to a hunk of a man? She’s bound to be my inspiration. Forget learning how to bake.

“There’s my princess!” he exclaims as a patter of steps sound and a little girl runs into his arms. He picks her up with familiar ease. “Alexandra, meet my daughter, Skye. Skye, meet our new apprentice, Alexandra.”

Skye has Christopher’s dark complexion, brightened by honey-gold eyes. Unruly locks of jet-black hair cascade on her shoulders. She leans against her father’s chest and studies me with widening eyes, her face tilted to the side so that it’s flush against her father’s shoulder. She seems very intimidated by me.

“You are so pretty, Skye.” I smile. “Thank you for sharing your home with me.” I cock my head to the side.

She dangles her leg, dropping her slipper, and extends her foot toward me.

“We had a mani-pedi session,” Christopher clues me in.

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