Page 17 of The Housemaid
“Okay…”
He wrenches the freezer open and pulls out a giant family pack of chicken nuggets. “See, these are the nuggets Cecelia likes. Don’t get any other brands. Anything else is unacceptable.” He fumbles with the Ziploc seal on the bag and removes one of the frozen nuggets. “Also, they must be dinosaur-shaped. Dinosaur—got that?”
I can’t suppress a smile. “Got it.”
“Also”—he holds up the chicken nugget—“you have to first examine the nugget for any deformities. Missing head, missing leg, or missing tail. If the dinosaur nugget has any of these critical defects, itwillbe rejected.” Now he pulls a plate from the cabinet above the microwave. He lays five perfect nuggets on the plate. “She likes to have five nuggets. You put it in the microwave for exactly ninety seconds. Any less, it’s frozen. Any more, it’s overcooked. It’s a very tenuous balance.”
I nod solemnly. “I understand.”
As the chicken nuggets rotate in the microwave, he glances around the kitchen, which is at least twice as large as the apartment I was evicted from. “I can’t even tell you how much money we spent renovating this kitchen, and Cecelia won’t eat anything that doesn’t come out of the microwave.”
The words “spoiled brat” are at the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them. “She knows what she likes.”
“She sure does.” The microwave beeps and he pulls out the plate of piping hot chicken nuggets. “How about you? Have you eaten yet?”
“I’ll just bring some food up to my room.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t want to join us?”
Part of me would like to join him. There’s something very engaging about Andrew Winchester, and I can’t help but want to get to know him better. But at the same time, it would be a mistake. If Nina walked in and saw the two of us laughing it up at the dining table, she wouldn’t like it. I also have a feeling that Cecelia won’t make the evening pleasant.
“I’d rather just eat in my room,” I say.
He looks like he’s going to protest, but then he thinks better of it. “Sorry,” he says. “We’ve never had live-in help before, so I’m not sure about the etiquette.”
“Me either,” I admit. “But I don’t think Nina would like it if she saw me eating with you.”
I hold my breath, wondering if I’ve overstepped by stating the obvious. But Andrew just nods. “You’re probably right.”
“Anyway.” I lift my chin to look at his eyes. “Thank you for the tutorial on the chicken nuggets.”
He grins at me. “Any time.”
Andrew takes the plate of chicken back into the dining room. When he’s gone, I gobble up the food from Cecelia’s rejected plate while standing over the kitchen sink, then return to my bedroom.
TEN
A week later, I come down to the living room and find Nina holding a full garbage bag. My first thought is: Oh God, what now?
In only a week of living with the Winchesters, I feel like I’ve been here for years. No,centuries. Nina’s moods are wildly unpredictable. At one moment, she’s hugging me and telling me how much she appreciates having me here. In the next, she’s berating me for not completing some task she never even told me about. She’s flighty, to say the least. And Cecelia is a total brat, who clearly resents my presence here. If I had any other options, I would quit.
But I don’t, so I don’t.
The only member of the family who isn’t completely intolerable is Andrew. He is not around much, but my few interactions with him have been…uneventful. And at this point, I’m thrilled withuneventful. Truthfully, I feel sorry for Andrew sometimes. It can’t be easy being married to Nina.
I hover at the entrance to the living room, trying to figure out what Nina could possibly be doing with a garbage bag. Does she want me to sort the garbage from now on, alphabetically and by color and odor? Have I purchased some sort of unacceptable garbage bag and now I need to re-bag the garbage? I can’t even begin to guess.
“Millie!” she calls out.
My stomach clenches. I have a feeling I’m about to figure out what she wants me to do with the garbage. “Yes?”
She waves me over to her—I try to walk over like I’m not being led to my execution. It’s not easy.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask.
Nina picks up the heavy garbage bag and drops it on her gorgeous leather sofa. I grimace, wanting to warn her not to get garbage all over the expensive leather material.
“I just went through my closet,” she says. “And unfortunately, a few of my dresses have gotten atadtoo small. So I’ve collected them in this bag. Would you be a dear and take this to a donation bin?”
