Page 75 of Hired Help

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While Brooke blowdries her hair and whatever else it is she does to look as fabulous as always, I slice, dice, and grate vegetables, ready to toss into a stir-fry.

There’s a nagging worry in the back of my mind. Worry that I can’t remember discussing birth control with her and while she’s probably on something already,probablyisn’t the greatest standpoint to work from.

Sheprobablywon’t have my baby growing inside her doesn’t have the same reassurance asknowingher body has devices or chemicals to ward off the bloody thing.

And a deeper part of me rejoices in the idea. I didn’t capture the first woman I impregnated for long but this one… this one I’m sure I could coax into staying around.

When she walks into the kitchen, I pull her close to me, encircling her in my arms while I wait for the oil to heat, then guide her into adding the different piles of vegetables at different times, keeping them from sticking with the constant motion of the pan.

“I’ve never cooked before,” she admits as I eventually have to move her out of the way. Her eyes are bright, dancing with mischief. A warning sign in anyone else, but with Brooke I’m excited to see exactly what ideas have sparked in her mind.

While I complete the meal, she answers a call, ducking into the bedroom for some privacy, then helps me set the table, following directions until she has a handle on where everything is located, then sorting the rest herself.

There’s a lull while we eat. Once I’m through the bulk of my plate, I slow a little, pausing between bites, moving one hand to rest on her knee.

Once she’s finished, she takes her plate into the kitchen to rinse in the sink, then turns in a puzzled circle while I watch through the gap between cabinets and bench.

“There isn’t a dishwasher,” I tell her. “Just leave it on the counter and I’ll get to it, later.”

“You didn’t use protection,” she says when she walks back into the room, leaning against the wall, frowning at the floor.

“Are you on birth control?”

“Yes.” She digs her toes into the carpet, not making eye contact so I have no idea what she’s thinking. “When you said about me telling Harrison—”

“I—” My throat closes, panic igniting a spark of fear. “Maybe not. Sorry, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.”

“He already knows.”

Which explains what his little carving trick was about.

“He gave me permission to be here.”

The idea spins through my head, trying to find a place to stop, to let me examine the possibilities.

What does that mean? Permission to be here and do what? Sit on my sofa. Have a cup of tea. Permission to fuck her until she can’t walk.

I rage at the idea hegave herpermissionat all, like it was something she needed.It’s layered atop the gratitude that she’s here, the fear this is a prelude to her saying goodbye.

“I love Harrison.” Brooke tilts her head to the side, frowning into mid-air, while I struggle with how to answer or even if I should. “He’s the only man I ever slept with until you.”

A new roar of possessiveness erupts inside me at the admission. Even though it shouldn’t matter, I must admit I like being in such an exclusive group. I like it a lot.

I stand, moving towards her but she hunches her shoulders. “Sorry. I just… I have a bunch of stuff to say, and it’s awkward, and I need space to say it.”

With a nod, I retake my seat, tension in every muscle, sure I know where this is going. She’s breaking up with me.

I stare at the edge of the table instead of looking at her, a pulse leaping in my throat. She fights for words, and I plunge into the gap, not wanting her to work for this any harder than she needs to.

“I love you. It’ll break my heart to lose you but if you need to be with my son instead, I’ll understand. I won’t make things difficult for you or stand in your way.”

When I glance at her, unable to stand the silence, she’s frowning at me, teeth worrying her bottom lip though it’s already red and swollen. “Harrison let me down and I still don’t understand why. I can’t—”

She breaks off, striding into the kitchen and pouring a glass of water, drinking the bulk of it in one go, staring into the sink afterwards, the tumbler curled against her chest. I count off a full minute before she places it down, walks back into the dining room, this time close enough to take a seat.

“I’m so nervous,” she says with a small laugh. “I’m scared I’m going to get this wrong.”

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