Page 46 of Never Let You Go

I giggle, and Christopher frowns. “It’s a good one,” I tell Christopher. “Skye will appreciate it.”

This gets me my own pointed frown, but I don’t miss the glint of heat that sparkles in his eyes.

Or his visible relief at seeing that Isaac seems to be doing well.

Around eight, Kiara comes in to start work on her pastries with Willow, and I slide into the kitchen to make coffee, drink a large glass of water, and snatch some sit-down time.

As I’m about to pour Christopher and me our coffees, Emma strolls in, carrying a briefcase and a large bag.

I stop my pour midair. “Hi?” I say. Should I ask her what she wants?

“Oh. Hello,” she answers, as if she’s surprised to see me here. She plops her briefcase on a chair and opens her canvas bag.

I resume pouring our coffees and put the coffee pot back on its base.

She pulls two mismatched egg cartons from her bag and places them in the refrigerator. Rummages through said fridge, rearranging things like she lives here. Then pulls small glass jars from her bag and places them in the fridge.

Then she makes her way to the coffee machine and starts a fresh pot.

Like she lives here.

“Oh hey, Ems,” Christopher says.

Her breath catches as she smiles at him.

“You know Alexandra?” he asks.

“Yeah, we’ve met,” she answers crisply, her smile dying. “I brought you fresh eggs from my chickens and some homemade yogurt,” she adds.

Christopher rubs the back of his neck, looking annoyed. “Thanks. You want to set up in the den?”

“Sure.”

“Invoices and all that shit’s already out there,” he says.

I remember now. Grace had said Emma was a CPA. She must be doing Christopher’s books. “You got your coffee?” he asks her.

“In a sec.” She grabs milk from the fridge, frowns as she closes the fridge, then goes straight to a cupboard that holds random things, pulls a mug that says “Emma’s mug” on one side and has a bunch of sheep on the other, then pulls an instrument that looks like a vibrator on a stand but turns out to be a milk frother, and proceeds to make her own little latte like a pro.

The woman is a pro. You have to give her that.

She shows up at her client’s home to do bookkeeping and brings him fresh eggs and homemade yogurt because she knows he’s a single dad and could use the help.

And the attention.

God there’s a lot of attention-giving going on right now.

She’s wiping the kitchen table she hasn’t used. Folding the dishtowels she hasn’t used. I’m surprised she didn’t bring flowers.

Oops! She reaches inside her Mary Poppins canvas bag.

“There,” she says, plopping a pot of blooming bulbs on the table.

“All set?” Christopher asks, still rubbing his neck.

“Yeah. That’s better. Much better,” she says, and I’m not sure if I should feel mildly offended or hilariously entertained, so I settle for both.

Thankfully, she leaves for the den, a multi-purpose area right off the kitchen, equipped with a couch, a giant TV, and a table, plugs in her laptop, and takes a deep dive into “the shit” Christopher prepared for her.

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