Page 36 of Sweet & Salty
Elodie’s door is cracked, and the light is on, despite it beinglate, especially for her. She’s normally locked away in her room by ten, but it’s hours past midnight now.
Curious, I approach, lightly knocking on the wooden door as I peek my head in, only to find that she’s fallen asleep on top of her covers, house shoes on and hair flying everywhere.
Oof.
First thing’s first, I locate one of her butterfly bonnets on her nightstand and go about stuffing her soft, golden hair into it. This takes a while, partially because I have no idea what I’m doing, and partially because I get… a little distracted. Her hair is just sosoftandsweetandintoxicating. It smells divine, like vanilla mixed with a rich, buttery cream. She is… the answer to my gingerbread cookies, actually. Maybe it’s not thecookiethat’s the problem. Maybe it’s theicing. Perhaps a buttercream…
Elodie sighs in her sleep, turning her head into my hand, which may or may not have been going in for another round of sweeping through her curls.
I let my thumb run across her cheekbone, marveling at the softness of her skin. She’s so…
Relaxed.
Such a contrast to how she normally is around me, and, lately, how she is in general. I can’t remember the last time I sawher looking this content. Not even when I was working the way-too-many kinks out of her back and shoulders did she look so at ease.
I frown, sliding my hand away from her face to gently convince a few more ringlets to rest inside her bonnet.
I know she’s stressed about the wedding planning, and our jobs are inherently stressful, being service jobs. I’m not sure… has she taken a break recently? The last one I remember was when she went to her cousin’s wedding in West Virginia, but that was months ago.
She has her classes every week, but half the time she comes home from those more stressed than when she left for them. I’m not sure what sort of hobbies she’s taking on, but I’ve got enough brain to know that no hobby should have you coming home like you’re returning from war.
Coaxing the last of her hair into her bonnet, I wrap the long ribbons around her head, careful not to wake her as I lift her to get them around the back, then tie a bow above her forehead the way I often see her wearing the contraption. It’s not perfect by any means, and I think she does something more to her hair before applying the bonnet, but it’s better than nothing, and she didn’t wake up during the process, so I count it as a win.
I slip her house shoes off next—an absolutely ridiculous pair of carrot-shaped slippers her cousin sent her last month—then tenderly scoop her into my arms so that I can maneuver her under her quilt. Settled, I tuck the blanket around her, admiring not only her impeccable work and the skill behind creating such a quilt, but the way she melts into it, lingering tension sliding off her shoulders.
My brows furrow as I watch her, not loving that she evenhadlingering tension to slide off.
She needs a break. Aseriousbreak.
I recall, again, the last one she took to see her family, andhow revitalized she was returning home. She wasn’t happy withme, but she was happy, skipping around the house and singing her Barbie songs while I was working on my arch nemesis: my ever-failing carrot cake recipe. I nearly throttled her one evening, about a week after she got home, when she twirled her way into the kitchen and one of her long, blonde hairs ended up on my orange frosting.
Curiously, I find that I would throttle a thousand men to get that Elodie back, bothering me in my kitchen with a smile on her face.
When’s the last time she smiled at me, gleeful over some annoyance she was causing?
Probably not since then, either, I realize, shuffling through the last few months in my head.
Hm. I don’t like that. Atall.
As Elodie snuffles, turning onto her side and tucking her hands beneath her cheek, an idea worms its way into my skull, slithering around until I think, maybe, if she’s willing…
I might have a solution to her stress.
Chapter Sixteen
We love a man with a plan.
Elodie
After waking up in very much not the position I fell asleep in, with my hair mostly encased in my bonnet, I’m not sure what I expect to find when I finally work up the nerve to go downstairs and face Roman, who clearly did some… helping? last night. My stomach squirms as I descend the stairs, cheeks warm as the summer sun.
Whatever I may have expected, it certainly wasn’t for him to barely glance at me, tell me he’s made cinnamon rolls and coffee, then go back to furiously tapping at his laptop and scribbling on one of the many papers strewn about the dining room table where he sits.
I blink, hand settling over my stomach as it lurches, uncertain. I suppose we will not be addressing him tucking me into bed as I slept, then. Which is, of course, absolutely fine by me. If he doesn’t bring it up, then I don’t have to bring it up, which means I don’t have to be polite and thank him for entering my personal space and moving around my vulnerable, unconscious body. Something that, actually, is very creepy, and not at all sweet.
Obviously.
I head to the kitchen, avoiding eye contact Roman isn’t even trying to make, but am halted several steps in when he says, not looking up from his work, “I’d like to have a house meeting at five, if you’re able.”
