Page 71 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“It does not, in fact.”
“Your dramatics truly know no bounds.” I knelt at his side, where the foam-like substance seeped into the runner.
“Please, leave me here to die,” he grumbled.
“Are you sure? That would ruin your rug.”
“It is ruined already, forever stained by my humiliation.”
“And whatever gunk you have on your face.” I poked his cheek, jumping when he actually raised his head to reveal a catastrophe. He left a rather perfect indentation of his face in the foam, and what remained on his cheeks was smudged and caught in his loose hair.
“Gunk?” he repeated, aghast. “This is a highly effective foam face mask that helps maintain my gloriously smooth and shiny skin.”
“Another of your designs?”
“Unfortunately, no.” He sat on his knees, where he proceeded to dejectedly tug the curlers from his hair. “I must buy it from a botanist friend of Otis’s, who will not share their recipe. I have been struggling for years, but nothing has surmounted her divine genius.” His hair fell in loose curls around his slumped shoulders. Standing with as much dignity as he could muster, which was hardly any, he stuck up his nose and declared, “If you will excuse me, I must wash up.”
“Yes, you should before you give anyone a fright with all that gunk on your face.” I smiled at his pointed glare. He did not like the word gunk.
“Wait in the kitchen,” he said. “I will be making breakfast momentarily.”
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I’ve said before that I am a man of excessive skills, haven’t I?”
“I haven’t witnessed those skills you speak of, so I’ve questioned your earlier statement.”
Mr. Hawthorne had the audacity to turn and kick his slipper at me. I narrowly dodged, only for the second slipper to hit me in the chest. Apparently, one of his skills was distracting with one slipper to land a blow with the other. By the time I looked up, he and his worn blanket were gone.
I wandered into the kitchen to start breakfast in his stead. It was the least I could do, and the silence would eat away at me. Without a distraction, I thought of the monster I may become on the full moon. But when I reached for a skillet, the thing flew off. I jumped for the skillet, and it flew even higher. This house got weirder everyday.
Seeing as I was banned from cooking, I poured a glass of coffee for Mr. Hawthorne and a glass of juice for myself. Ivy deemed that appropriate, and I sat at the island to wait for Mr. Hawthorne. My fingers tapped and tapped against the glass, reminding me of claws. I thought I saw them sprouting out of my nailbeds, so I shut my eyes, and when next they opened, the nails were gone.
Mr. Hawthorne entered, his worn blanket replaced by a canary yellow blouse and white trousers. He was brave to wear that while cooking. The gems in his ears matched, catching the sun and giving him an aura of summer. His sleeves were rolledup to his elbows, revealing his toned arms. Two buttons were undone on his shirt to give a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. My eyes lingered longer than they should have.
He thanked me for the coffee and went to the stove to get to work. My feet crossed at the ankles, and I swung my legs. I usually wasn’t the one waiting, always cooking breakfast for the girls, hard at work at the farm or the tavern, and coming home too exhausted to do much more than sleep.
Since being at Ivory House, I’d learned what it was like to have leisurely days. I’d gone into town more than I ever had in my life. I’d bought jewelry and worn beautiful dresses, and now I sat at the table watching a man cook breakfast for me. While I may have imagined a life like that, I never thought it would come true. I knew this wasn’t the future waiting for me, but in that moment, I dared to want it. Dared to want this exactly…
My feet hit the island, knocking a handful of cooking utensils onto the floor. Mr. Hawthorne turned at the sound of the clatter. Apologizing, I got to cleaning them, relieved to hide my warm face behind the island.
“Um, you said earlier you can cook…” I shoved the last of the utensils in place and stood, putting on a teasing smile. “But are you a good cook?”
He dropped bacon into a second skillet while sprinkling sage across the eggs. “Careful how you speak to the chef, Miss Moore. I may give you a poor meal out of spite.”
“I’ll choose to believe it was your lack of skills.”
He sent me a playful look that warmed my chest. He dropped our toast onto a plate, and I hurried over. We stood shoulder to shoulder while I buttered the toast. I could move but found myself wanting to linger there until my work was done.
Slate dove in through the open window to land on the counter. He stared at us, and I couldn’t help but sense his judgment. Mr. Hawthorne made no mention of him while I ripped a piece of bread to present as an offering. Slate accepted and took to perching on the windowsill, remaining our vigilant protector. Of what, I wasn’t sure.
Finishing the toast, I took it to the island and sat back down. “You should have let me handle breakfast. The three of you have been hard at work.”
“And you have been stressed. You can afford a few days of leisure.” He flipped the bacon and poured the eggs onto our awaiting plates.
“While I appreciate it, I don’t need to be taken care of. You have done, and are doing, more than enough. I can cook for myself,” I countered because, frankly, leisure felt like the last activity I should be partaking in.
“You are a troublesome thing.” He shook the skillets one last time before plating our bacon. After sitting the plates down, he took his seat and a bite of toast, waving it about as he proclaimed, “Cooking for you doesn’t mean you can’t cook. Otis cooks for me all the time, which is mostly because he wakes at an outrageous hour and I have a careful routine to follow.”
