Page 18 of Wicked Arrangement

But, based on what little I know about Yaroslav, he won’t expect me to pay him back, and he might even be insulted if I refused to wear the clothing he went to the trouble of getting for me. Plus, I have no idea where my clothes are. So, admitting defeat, I pull off the tags and try not to look at the prices.

I have no idea what I should do now. I haven’t been told I can’t wander around freely, but I also don’t want to seem like I’m snooping. And the place is so big I’d probably get lost. So, I decide to stay put for a while. With nothing else to do in the room other than watch TV, I turn it on, half watching a show about interior design, something that would normally enrapture me, but I can’t seem to focus on. Thoughts of Gran and how she’s doing as well as my current situation distract me. I decide I will ask Yaroslav if I can borrow a phone to call the hospital and speak with her. I’d been so distracted yesterday that I’d left Gran’s phone that I’d been using at the hospital.

Around one o’clock, a maid knocks at my door. It’s a different one to the older woman who showed me the way to my room yesterday. She’s a dark-skinned Black woman, around my age and height her southern accent is as thick as molasses. She’s dressed the same as the other maids, in a simple shift dress and pinafore with her hair in a bun.

“Miss Walsh, Mr. Volkov has requested your presence downstairs for lunch,” she states formally, looking at her shoes.

I’ve not long eaten so I don’t feel overly hungry, but I’m bored and in need of a distraction, so I agree, even though I feelstrangely nervous to see Yaroslav again in the light of day after last night.

“Sure,” I reply. The maid nods and begins to lead the way, I feel uncomfortable being waited on hand and foot, being treated like royalty. “You know, you don’t need to treat me like that… be so polite and stand on ceremony, I mean,” I tell her.

She glances at me curiously from the side, not meeting my gaze. “It’s my job,” she states plainly.

“I know, but you don’t need to. Not with me,” I say with a smile.

“I don’t know if Mr. Volkov would like that,” she says nervously.

“Well, I don’t give a damn what he likes,” I reply trying to make her smile.

She looks shocked at the suggestion, and I realize that to her I must seem like some rich asshole who doesn’t understand what life is like for the lower classes who have to be respectful, and do as they’re told or risk being fired, who are treated as second-class and ignored. I feel pissed off that Yaroslav treats his maids and has them act like this. I mustn’t forget who he is. Or my place. To him, I’m just the same, a paid employee. Just in a very different capacity.

“Sorry, I just… well I just feel uncomfortable being waited on. I’m not used to all this,” I say, gesturing around me. “What’s your name?” I ask.

She contemplates for a moment before answering, “Alheri.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Alheri. I’m Kimmy,” I say with a grin.

“Nice to meet you too,” she replies with a small, polite smile that doesn’t show her teeth.

I search for something else to chat with her about, suddenly feeling it’s important for her to know that I’m like her, that I’m not an elitist, without her thinking I’m a prostitute either. But I can’t find the words. And then we’re outside the kitchen.

“He’s in there,” Alheri says with a nod to the door.

“Thank you, Alheri,” I reply.

She nods and scuttles off. I enter the huge state-of-the-art kitchen. I’m not surprised to find that it’s just as impressive as the rest of the house. In the kitchen area, there’s every appliance known to man, four ovens, two fridge freezers, and a massive island in the center. Off to the right of this, there’s a beautiful kitchen table with eight chairs around it. To my surprise, Yaroslav has chosen to sit on a stool at the island. As usual, he’s impeccably dressed and looks as drop-dead gorgeous as ever. On the island, there’s an array of cold meats, cheeses, breads, salads, veggies, and more. It’s far more than two people need.

“Good afternoon. I thought you might prefer to sit here rather than at the table,” he states.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply gratefully, before taking a seat next to him.

I am surprised and pleased that he even considered my preferences. It’s hard to get a read on him. One minute I thinkhe’s a rich entitled person and then he surprises me with small gestures like these that show he understands my discomfort.

“I’m sorry I have been unavailable all morning. I had business to attend to,” he explains smoothly.

“That’s okay,” I reply, clasping my hands in my lap, uncertain of what to do now.

“Please dig in,” he says, gesturing to the food.

I do as instructed, adding, “This is a lot of food, as was my breakfast, are you trying to fatten me up?” I joke.

“Not at all, I just didn’t know what you like, so I thought it was best to provide options,” he states, piling his own plate up.

“Oh. Thanks,” I say, feeling shy.

We start to eat in silence, neither of us seeming certain of what to say. I pick up a chicken drumstick, ready to devour it when I notice how prim and properly Yaroslav is eating.

I put it down again, picking up my knife and fork and trying to eat as gracefully as I can. Either Yaroslav noticed my concern, or I was overthinking things, but a moment later, he grabs another drumstick and bites into it. Grateful, I do the same.

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