Our eyes snapped towards the living room as we instantly turned alert.
“What was that?” I asked, immediately dropping the knife on the counter and turning to him.
He frowned, concern etching his face. “Sounds like something broke.”
He replied and strode towards the living room, his long strides eating up the distance. I followed closely behind, darting my eyes across the whole place.
There was no sight of Miss Ross anywhere, so who would have broken something?
“Miss Ross…” I hollered, and my voice echoed, shattering the silence.
As we entered the living room, I gasped at the sight before us. The vase that had sat on the coffee table lay shattered on the floor, its fragments scattered everywhere.
“Who could have…?” I trailed off, my eyes scanning the room. Then I noticed that even the table linen was rumpled, the edges almost falling off the table.
“How did this fall on its own?” I mused, returning my gaze to the shattered fragments beneath me.
Without a word, Mr. Clinton let out a silent sigh and turned on his heel, marching toward the room at the far corner.
“Where are you going?” I asked, spreading my arms in confusion.
He tilted his head, looking over his shoulder with an incredulous gaze. “To get a broom, of course. Do you see any housekeeper around?”
“Oh… wait, let me do the cleaning,” I said immediately as he continued walking.
He tossed me a mocking glance, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’d rather do it myself. I don’t want you cutting your foot. You know you can be reckless sometimes.”
“Ouch,” I said, feigning hurt, though his words stung a little. “That was below the belt, Mr. Clinton.”
His smirk widened, and he raised an eyebrow. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
I rolled my eyes, trying to hide the flush rising to my cheeks. “Yeah, go ahead, make fun of me. The last time I cut my foot, it wasn’t my fault, remember?”
I heard him chuckle as he disappeared out of sight, but not without throwing another word. “Go make breakfast, chef; I don’t want mother starving.”
I let out a chuckle and returned to the kitchen, a slight smile plastered on my face. He seemed to be learning to make teasing a habit these days. I’m glad we could finally find some common ground and get back to what we were before-and even much better. Our relationship was slowly moving to the next level. We kissed without breaking into an intense argument, and sooner, I hope he would learn to never hold himself back.
A sly grin spread across my face as I reminisced about the series of kisses we had shared-all three of them, each distinct in its own way, yet etched in my mind forever. The first, a fierce and unwanted spark; the second, a soft and willing surrender; and the third, a gentle whisper of possibility.
A hope that this juvenile love of mine can finally find its footing and my all-consuming infatuation could blossom into something real, something tangible, something that wouldn’t shatter at the slightest misstep-a transformation into a long-lasting bond.
As I let out a gentle sigh, the tension in my shoulders began to ease. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I wasn’t daydreaming, but enthusiastic and determined to envision a future where Mr. Clinton and I could coexist, our love a flame that warmed rather than scorched.
As I continued chopping the vegetables, I couldn’t shake off the heartwarming feeling that Mr. Clinton wasn’t a hard rock as I initially thought. There was a glimpse of genuine warmth in his eyes-a yearning for me, something I had always hoped for.
I shook my head and pushed the thought aside, focusing on the vegetables and clinking utensils in front of me.
The sound of sweeping stopped, and I sensed his presence behind me. “All clear,” he said, his voice low and smooth.
I turned, a mischievous smile spreading on my cheek, and replied with sarcasm, “Thanks for saving me from myself.”
He shrugged and took another apple from the bowl beside him. “Anytime.”
I chuckled, watching him take a large bite out of the apple. His eyes never left mine as I chewed every piece.
A snort slipped from my lips as I imagined the reason behind his ravenous appetite.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” I asked, my eyes flickering with amusement, holding back another snort wanting to slip past me again.
He nodded with his mouth still full, and I couldn’t contain my laughter anymore.
“I guess I will have to focus on preparing breakfast,” I said, my voice breaking with stifled chuckles.
He swallowed, a hint of a smile curling up his lips. “That would be appreciated.”
With a smile still on my face, I turned back to the counter and continued with the meal, not wanting to starve him more than he already was.
I heard him walking away, his footsteps dissipating down the corridor.
I strode to the fridge and grabbed two steaks. My spaghetti wouldn’t be complete without beef; just the thought of sinking my teeth into mouthwatering grilled steak made my stomach flutter with anticipation.
My obsession with beef was something else.
I chuckled at my own thoughts, my wide grin never faltering, and it seemed it wouldn’t fade for the rest of the day. I was beaming with unbridled joy, my lips curled with glee as I basked in the serene tranquility.
Erin was out of the way, and my relationship with Mr. Clinton was growing with more passion and intimacy. A sense of euphoria to relish; I felt like I was walking on air.
The crackles of sizzling vegetables and the gentle hum of the gas cooker serenaded me, while the aromatic scent of pesto sauce wafted through the air, teasing my senses and stirring my appetite. I could even hear my stomach growling in harmony with the culinary symphony.
In my euphoric haze, my movement became careless as I swayed in the rhythm of the sizzling vegetables. I lost focus, and the knife slipped, grazing my finger.
A searing pain shot through my finger, and I jerked my hand back, instinctively clutching it to my chest.
“Ahh!” I exclaimed, wincing in shock.
Grimacing, I stepped back from the counter and hastily grabbed a nearby towel to stem the flow of blood welling up from the small gash. “Oh no, no, no!” I muttered, frustration mixing with concern as I berated myself. “Mr. Clinton was right; I really can be reckless sometimes… perhaps most times.”
I let out a sigh and hurried out of the kitchen to find a Band-Aid and stop the bleeding.