Page 3 of For You, Sir

It was too late to fix things for Madam, but maybe it wasn’t too late for Sir. I could still be redeemed, could prove I was a good caregiver.

No, I chided myself. This wasn’t about me. I should focus on Sir’s needs for his own sake. Still, if I couldn’t get Sir’s head above water, I feared we both would drown

Chapter 2 (Jun)

The next morning, I balanced a sack of groceries on my hip as I unlocked the front door. The living room was gloomy, the curtains still drawn, but at least the place was tidy and smelled of air freshener instead of misery.

Sir sat upright on the couch wearing the same clothes as yesterday, with a massive laptop open across his thighs. His shaggy blond hair was greasy and tousled, his cheeks unshaven, but he was handsome enough to carry off the disheveled “Viking” look. I’d read he was born in Norway—as if a name like Einar Eriksen wasn’t enough of a tip-off. He watched me like a wary animal as I closed the door. The laptop illuminated his face, turning his skin a sickly shade of pale blue.

“Good morning, Sir,” I said lightly. “Would you care for some breakfast?”

He frowned a little and shook his head.

“Coffee?” I asked, striding toward the kitchen.

He considered for a moment, then said, “Sure,” His voice was hoarse and raspy. “I guess.”

I nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Buttling was a delicate balance of being close at hand when needed and out of the way when not. It was best to anticipate a client’s wishes without annoying him with too many questions. Since Sir was used to being alone, I figured it would put him at ease if I kept a low profile.

I started brewing a pot of coffee and headed through the garage to get more groceries. I’d expected to find a flashy sports car parked there, but Sir’s vehicle was a decade-old hybrid with a few dings on the side. Still living like a small-budget indie film maker, even after he’d hit the Hollywood big time.

Perhaps I’d made a mistake in purchasing luxury bath soaps and skin care products. Would Sir be grateful if I nudged him toward high-end living or would it make him feel more out of his depth?

I headed back inside, and Sir’s eyes followed me whenever I walked past, sternly glaring over the edge of his computer. It was a little unsettling. My clients usually ignored me while I worked, leaving me comfortably invisible. I worried he saw me as an unwelcome intruder, since it wasn’t his decision to hire me.

In the bathroom, I replaced Sir’s cheap toiletries with products with masculine names, scented with cedar and bergamot. Hopefully, the new items would entice him to take better care of himself.

The guest bathroom seemed to be the only one he used. There wasn’t so much as a roll of toilet paper in the master bath, and a fuzzy layer of dust had settled over his king-sized bed like morning frost. Why was he living like a guest in his own house?

I finished restocking the kitchen and hummed in satisfaction. The clean fridge, filled with fresh ingredients, gave me a hopeful, prosperous feeling. I pulled a chef’s knife from the block, laid out a cutting board, and began breaking down a raw chicken.

I had just cracked the hip joint, preparing to sever the tendons, when Sir appeared in the doorway, a blanket draped around his shoulders.

I lowered my knife. “May I get you something, Sir?”

He shook his head, pulled out a high-backed chair nestled against the center island, and climbed onto it. He set down his coffee mug, and bundled his blanket tighter, then held his hands around the cup as if warming them.

If you’re that cold, why don’t you turn down the air conditioning?

Sir didn’t seem disturbed by the sight of raw meat, so I resumed butchering the chicken, deftly cutting it into quarters. He observed in silence as I rubbed the pieces with olive oil, spread them in a roasting pan, then sprinkled everything with salt and pepper. Maybe he was scrutinizing my every action because he enjoyed micromanaging, just waiting for an opportunity to criticize.

“How come you do it like that?” Sir mumbled over the lip of his coffee mug.

“Hm?”

He pantomimed sprinkling salt with his hand held high above the countertop.

“It spreads more evenly that way.” It was unusual for clients to take any interest in my work; they outsourced such menial tasks for a reason, after all.

“What’re you making?”

“Chicken barley soup.” It was a safe place to start while I was still learning Sir’s personal tastes—healthy comfort food that would reheat well in my absence. “Does that sound good?”

He nodded, then glanced at the oven. “If it’s for soup, how come you’re baking it?”

What had he expected—dumping raw chicken into hot broth and boiling it? Was the poor man raised by wolves? I was sure he didn’t want a lecture about the Maillard reaction, so I just said, “It tastes better if you roast it first, then add it to the soup at the very end. Then I can use the bones to make stock.”

“Oh.” He looked surprised. “That sounds… time-consuming.”

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