Page 6 of Provoked

Justin narrows his eyes in disdain. “Ingrid. Were you planning to just not eat until someone came by?”

I shake my head mutely, then point to the suitcases in the corner. “I have snacks.”

His cheeks go red and I can tell he’s holding in the yelling. I hunch my shoulders forward, wondering if there is really anyone on the planet that can live up to all of his expectations.

Justin lets out his frustration with a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll be back in a minute.” With that, he turns and heads downstairs.

A few minutes later, I sigh with relief when I open the fridge door. There are sandwich fixings, some milk and bread, and a couple of casseroles that look like ones my grandmother made up on Saturday to take to anyone in town willing to accept them on Sunday. She never missed an opportunity to involve more people in her day, something that made her warm and beloved by many and left me always feeling like I was in the margins, even in my own extended family.

More important than the food right now, there is ice in the freezer trays. I shake out half a dozen cubes into a sandwich bag, seal it and wrap it in a thin kitchen towel as I make my way back to Ingrid. I’m more worried than I let on about her leg. At a minimum, it’s going to leave her with a nasty bruise. The wheel of the suitcase scraped a wide gouge from her smooth skin. I didn’t see any blood, but I’ll feel better if someone can keep an eye on her and make sure there are no dangerous blood clots forming.

Setting the icepack on her shin, my lips twitch when her eyes narrow in aggravation at the shock of cold. “Thanks. I think…” she mutters as I sit down on the bed so she won’t strain her neck.

Once I’m sure she’s not avoiding the ice on her injury, I study her face. She looks like one of those demure but sensual angels from a Renaissance painting, somehow out of place in even these vintage surroundings. She should be seated in a frame of velvets and tapestries. As if reading my mind, Ingrid narrows her eyes at me. I sigh and address the dinner issue. “Do you want a sandwich now or wait for a casserole to warm?”

Her eyes brighten. “There’s casserole? What kind?”

I shrug. “Not a clue. There are two of them, though, with heating instructions. I assume that’s what you want?”

She nods enthusiastically, so I stand to head back to the kitchen. “Could you bring me my phone?” Ingrid asks softly. I nod without turning around. It must be downstairs with her purse.

Back in the narrow entry, I hesitate before opening her bag. It’s not a monstrosity like I’ve seen most women carry, but it’s big enough to hold trouble. Her phone is sitting neatly to one side, so I slide it out, leaving the bag where it is on the credenza. Heading back upstairs, I realize I’ve gotten as much cardio in as twenty minutes in the gym. Ingrid gives me an odd look at my self-satisfied smirk as I hand her the phone.

In the kitchen, the old stove with manual dials transports me back to my youth again. There were good times. Family picnics down by the river, playing softball (badly) with my brothers when they were short a friend and asked me to play. It’s just that all those times were always so crowded. So full of people. Unless I was home sick, I can’t remember a single event where I was alone with either of my parents. And even if I’d been allowed, there wasn’t space at the table to hold a book while I ate. My parents had strict rules about meals. No books, no swearing, no name calling — like that ever stopped my older brother Steve. Still, they loved me in their own way — and I can’t say that about anyone in my current life.

Setting the oven to preheat, I remember that I haven’t checked my own phone recently and those movers are expected any minute.

As if summoned by my thoughts, I hear the telltale growl of a diesel engine making its way down the drive.

When the two men emerge from the truck, I know I made the right decision to come here. Ingrid is far too innocent to stand up to these guys if one of them was set on taking advantage of her.

The taller of the two slides open the back of the truck and attaches the ramp. The other turns to me. “Thought we were delivering to a lady named Ingrid Winters. She here?”

Well, at least they’re being professional with that part. My ire subsides ever so slightly as I nod. “She hurt her leg and is resting upstairs. How much of this is boxes versus furniture?”

The man in the truck looks back into the cavern before pursing his lips. “No furniture. It’s all boxes.”

That seems strange. They lived in a mansion. There must have been some nicer pieces, or family heirlooms worth keeping. Not the movers’ problem, though. I shrug and direct them inside. “Stack them in the living room, then. I’ll get out of your way.”

And with that, they kick into production. Boxes are already starting to line the walls by the time I slide the casserole into the oven. Which makes me grimace because when did I give up manual labor? But we all know it would take ten times longer if I offered to ‘help’ and I’d be the butt of mover jokes for years down the road as well. Still, it feels like I should pull out my wallet and check if my man card is still valid.

The softer thump on the stairs is barely perceptible between the thud of boxes being stacked in the living room. I peer around the corner of the kitchen to see Ingrid limping down the stairs, a grimace of pain on her pretty face when she has to place weight on her injured leg.

“Ingrid,” I growl in warning. “What the hell are you doing?”

She visibly winces. “No shouting, Justin. This is my house, not yours, and I thought I made it clear that yelling at me is neither effective nor appreciated.” The tilt of her elegant nose reminds me once again of the difference in our pedigrees. Ingrid doesn’t think of herself as aristocratic, but that doesn’t make it less true.

I sigh and bang my head against the doorjamb. “Then don’t do stupid shit that could cause more damage.”

The bright spots of pink high on her cheekbones tell me she’s more than ready to fire back at me, but she purses her lips instead. “Why are you down here, anyway?” I finally ask more calmly.

“Somebody didn’t check with me to see where I wanted everything put.”

I shrug. “It’s all boxes. I can move anything you want upstairs, but won’t it be easier to unpack down here? Fewer trips if it belongs down here, anyway.”

She’s still standing there with her bad leg raised, staring at me. I can’t stand it anymore, so I scoop her up, ignoring her muffled protests and settle her on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. She needs to elevate that leg, but this will keep her from falling over, at least.

“Do you know what’s in them?” she asks quietly, almost with a hint of trepidation. It calms my rising temper.

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