Page 8 of One Hell of a Deal

I thought food was just something that was available. It never occurred to me that it has to be put together and made hot. I am fascinated. I wonder if Max keeps stuff in the apartment to make food or if he has someone else make it for him. Maybe I could be the maker of our food.

Now the lady on TV is holding a headless and featherless bird she calls a chicken, but I thought chickens had heads, so I'm confused. She is showing me how to roast it, whatever that means, with herbs and butter, whatever that is.

Suddenly overwhelmed with all the things I do not know, I squeeze my eyes shut, releasing a deep sigh as I mutter into the empty room, “Maybe I am not fit to be human after all.”

My stomach sinks as I listen to her continue the lesson. “Dropping a rounded teaspoon of…

Her voice is getting farther away with each second that passes until I slip away into nothingness.

Chapter Eight: Max

The day is a cyclone of frustration. Between morning conferences and client calls, my head circles with weekend replays and dread about not only my immediate issue of sortingthings out for Daphne, but also of my thirty-year countdown to hell.

My personal assistant, Belinda, keeps telling me how tired I look, and although I keep shrugging her off, I fear the endless coffee refills aren’t going to sustain me much longer. It wasn’t until I spaced out on an early afternoon call with one of our top-tier clients that I relented.

There is no point in finishing the day if I’m not really here anyway. I need food, sleep, and a fresh mind in order to function at the level my demanding new position requires. At least my seniority means I have no clock to punch, and only a few corporate heads to ever answer to, so leaving a few hours early will go unnoticed. Especially because I tell Belinda, I’m meeting with a client on my tired shuffle to the elevators. I don’t think she falls for it, though.

“See you tomorrow then?” She says with a smirk. “Hopefully, you can catch up on the sleep you obviously didn’t get over the weekend.”

“Of course,” I say as she shoots me an overly animated wink. I hate that she is so perceptive, but I guess that skill is an asset for an assistant to have.

It’s about a twenty-minute walk from the office to my apartment. It’s usually a commute I spend observing the city chaos, while reflecting on the day's activities, but today is different. There is only one subject swirling around my noggin, consuming all of my focus.

What am I going to do with her? How can I get her out of my life and ready for independence of her own? Can she even help me out of my deal, or is she just manipulating me? I can’t believe I was so stupid. How am I going to fix this? I just wantthings to go back to the way it was before, but I know that’s never going to happen.

“You’vereallyfucked things up big time, Max,” I mumble under my breath without meaning to, shocked as the old doorman opens the door and with a confused glare says, “What’s that, Sir?”

A fire creeps into my cheeks. “Oh, it’s nothing, Bill. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

“Well, good luck with whatever it is, sir,” he says as I walk away. “I’m sure you’ll sort it out.”

I nod in appreciation without looking back at him as I press the elevator button many more times than necessary, and mumble, “I’m not too sure about that,” as the door opens and I step in, relieved to find it empty. One last moment of peace.

The doors open into my hallway, and my chest tightens as a strange odor hits me. I can’t quite pin it down, but it’s unusual. It reminds me of burnt marshmallows mixed with flowers. But it also has hints of oregano…or is that thyme? At least there's no sign of a fire.

I take a deep breath before walking in. My nerves are shot; like all the coffee I’ve consumed today has turned my veins to glass. Stepping inside, unsure of what I will find, I am hit with something so unexpected that I instantly break out in a chuckle, a release that sends my tensions to the background of my mind for the first time today.

Daphne, wearing only one of my button-up dress shirts and a pair of my boxers, covered in what I can only assume is flour, is standing at the kitchen island. She is surrounded by a mess of pots and pans, eggshells, odd-looking batters, and charcoal lumps of failed baking attempts. I think she has usedevery ingredient she could find in the cupboards and fridge. I’m just glad she didn’t burn the place down.

“You’re early,” she says, her face dropping. “I wanted to surprise you with food.”

I walk closer and fight off my laughter. “That was surprisingly thoughtful of you.”

“To be honest, it's not going too well,” she says, pointing at some black lumps on a cookie sheet. “I tried chicken first. You had some thighs in the freezer. I don’t know where I went wrong. But I know those aren’t right.”

“That’s chicken?” I say, truly amazed. “I thought they were burned cookies.”

She groans dramatically and throws her hands in the air. “It must have been the peanut butter.”

“Peanut butter?” Now I’m really curious. “On baked chicken? I’m no chef, but that doesn’t sound right.”

“Well, the lady on the TV said to use a half cup of butter, and I already used the last of your regular butter in the cake. That’s in the oven. I thought the peanut kind could work. It’s butter, isn't it?”

“Unfortunately, it's not the same,” I say, but the disappointment on her face makes me feel bad, so I add, “but I think it’s a really lovely thing that you tried to do here. Maybe the cake will be perfect.”

“I doubt it,” she says, shrugging.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “What makes you say that?”

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