our housekeeper, are the only help we use daily, with the exception of Saturdays. I thought we’d like to keep that day quiet.”
We. Does he mean the two of us this time? I bet he and Joanna decided to keep Saturdays to themselves. I try to push away thoughts of how they’d spend their days together.
“So there are always people here,” I say.
“No, not always. Not if we don’t want them to be. We can always adjust the days they work. Do you have a problem with something?”
“No.” But it’s only Sunday, and I’m afraid to stare down the long barrel of the week. “I just wasn’t expecting such a large…operation.”
“I couldn’t keep Ravenwood up by myself.” More voices join the conversation in his office. I wish I was there with him all day, the way I used to be. “It takes a team of people to keep the house running so I can be here. Listen, Coll, I have to run. Love you.”
He ends the call. I sit for a moment, then pull myself together. Unlocking the door, I traipse downstairs into the kitchen.
“Let’s try this again,” I say sheepishly as I slide onto a stool at the massive island. “Good morning. I’m sorry about before, I didn’t know that you—”
“It’s fine.” Dean’s tone is clipped as he feverishly shifts from the stove to the counter and back again. “As long as you enjoy your bacon burned to a crisp.”
Folding my hands over the quartz, I take another look at him. I notice the seams on his linen pants are crisp, and he’s wearing a thick gold-chain bracelet. Not exactly daytime ax-murderer wear. He’s young too. Thirty, maybe.
“Bacon’s bacon,” I assure him. “I don’t think it’s possible to ruin it.”
“Coffee?” he asks, after removing the charred bacon from the grill. “I made you decaf.”
Before I can answer, he pulls a delicate china cup from a cabinet and adds two spoonfuls of sugar and a heap of vanilla creamer before passing it over. It’s not the way I like my coffee. Not even close—I prefer mine black with a shake of cinnamon. He didn’t even ask.
“Thank you.” I’m not about to correct him. Not when I’m pretty sure he’s still pissed over my freak-out that ruined his precious bacon. Who knew chefs could be so touchy? How did he expect me to react anyway, when I wake to find a strange man has been cooking while I slept upstairs? “When did you get here? I didn’t even hear you come in.”
“I told you, Miss Roper. I’m here every morning at eight.”
“But you weren’t here earlier, were you? When Michael was here? He didn’t leave until almost nine.”
“This morning was an exception, thanks to you. Every day—except for Saturdays, which are my days off—I’m here at eight. This morning, Mr. Harris requested I make you something special since you weren’t feeling well. That called for a late trip to the market.” He glances at the strips of burned bacon and makes a disgruntled sound. “Anyhow, I have a key. I always let myself in so I don’t wake Jo—anyone.”
“You can call me Colleen.” I pretend I didn’t hear the slip. “Miss Roper sounds way too formal. If you’re here every morning, we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”
“I prefer formality.” He’s still annoyed with me. Spinning to the sink, he scrubs his hands and gets back to work. “There’s nothing wrong with boundaries. They keep the water clear.”
Yet if I’m not mistaken, he was about to call Joanna by her first name a moment earlier.
The coffee he poured is so sweet it zings my teeth. Did he make it this way because this is how he used to make it for Joanna? Am I sitting where Joanna used to sit?
“Eat up,” he orders, sliding a plate in front of me.
It’s a tower of eggs sprinkled with something red on top—maybe