Page 40 of Give Me Strength

My eyes drift to my email inbox, eagerly awaiting a response from Melissa Fontaine, our previous House Manager. She had been with us for years but left about a year after Rachel died. They were close, so I don’t blame her for not wanting to stick around when even I couldn’t bear to. I had reached out to her when I first got back and again recently, hoping she might reconsider coming back. She turned me down immediately the first time but didn’t respond to the second ask. It’s been two weeks, and I’m losing hope.

I keep coming back to the same thought: I need someone who can run the logistics of a household of this size, who will understand our routines, and who can help Ashlynn adjust to living here long-term.

In other words, what we need is a miracle. A unicorn who would fit seamlessly into our lives.

Should be easy, right?

Wrong.

The two names Ashlynn pulled out randomly the other day didn’t pan out. Granted, I didn’t give them enough chance to prove themselves. Or maybe it’s because we both need a House Manager, not a housekeeper.

A new email notification pings, breaking the silence. My heart skips a beat when I see it’s from Melissa. I open it, and her reply brief:

Maybe. It’s been a long time, Gilbert. I need to think about it.

Melissa

I lean back, letting out a weary sigh. A ‘maybe’ is better than a flat-out ‘no.’ That’s promising. I wasn’t persuasive enough the second time, so it’s time I upped the ante.

As I quickly type a reply, I don’t think, my fingers flying over the keys with urgency. My thoughts are with the young woman who’s fast asleep upstairs.

I understand. Name your price, Melissa. I’ll pay whatever you ask. I need someone who knows the house. There’s also Ashlynn…

Before I can finish, the soft pad of footsteps draws my attention. I look up as Ashlynn moves gracefully into the kitchen, like a vision stepping out of a dream, her presence instantly transforming the space. She’s wearing a simple tank top and shorts, her brown hair cascading over her shoulders, green eyes shimmering even in the dim light. Even in her apparent exhaustion, she moves with a grace that takes my breath away.

“Ashlynn, what are you doing up?” I say, my voice breaking the silence.

She opens the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. “Couldn’t sleep. Just getting some water.”

She takes a few sips, then heads to the cupboard where the first aid kit is kept.

I push my laptop aside. “You’re not just here for water, are you?”

She sighs as she sits on one of the bar stools, propping her foot on another stool. “Balm for my feet. It’s... been a long day.”

I rise from my seat, coming around the island to kneel in front of her. “Let me help.”

Her green eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t protest. I gently take the first aid kit from her, opening it to find the balm and bandages.

“Sit on the counter,” I tell her, and she hesitates only for a moment before nodding and hopping onto the cool marble surface.

I start with her left foot, applying the balm to the soles of her feet with careful, deliberate strokes, noting the calluses and blisters from hours of practice. Her skin is soft and cool to the touch, the muscles taut under my fingers — the contrast sending a shiver through me.

“You carry a lot of tension in your feet,” I say softly, looking up into her eyes.

She swallows hard, her vulnerability evident. “I’m used to it.”

“You don’t have to be.” I finish with one foot and move to the other, my gaze never leaving hers. “There are massage therapists who work with athletes. They are professionals at loosening up all the knots.”

Her throat shifts. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

The intimacy of the moment is almost overwhelming. I’m captivated by her, drawn in by her strength and vulnerability. I take my time, wanting to offer her some comfort, some relief from the pain. Wanting to make this moment last.

Wanting to bask a while longer in the underlying attraction swirling through the air, a tension that’s been building since the day she came into my life.

It’s pure torture — the good kind of torture.

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