A Slow Boil (11 page)

When I got back to the house it was early afternoon and already
quite warm.  I put the groceries away, left the books on the kitchen
island and tip-toed upstairs where I washed my face and changed into my dress,
which felt deliciously cool compared to my jeans. I decided that instead of
socks and sneakers, my flats would be more comfortable as well, so I slipped
them on and went down to start work.

I wasn’t getting any faster at dusting.  I just couldn’t
figure out any shortcuts and although I could probably get away with not being
thorough, I was determined to do a good job for Mr. Hunter.  I finished
right at four again, washed up, and headed into the kitchen to get organized on
dinner.  The fish would probably take thirty minutes, same with the sauce,
but I wasn’t sure if the mashed sweet potatoes would take longer to boil than
regular potatoes, and wasn’t completely decided on how to make the Swiss
chard.  I poured myself a glass of water and sat down at the island,
pulling out a few of the household cookbooks and even checking my new one but
finding nothing helpful.  I tiptoed back upstairs and brought down my
laptop to see what I could find online.  I had a recipe for braised chard
pulled up and was comparing it to something I’d found in the stack of cookbooks
when I heard Mr. Hunter come in.

“Miss Lane, here you are.”  He opened the fridge and pulled
out a sparkling water.  “I didn’t hear you return from town and I must say
you work very quietly.  I wasn’t sure you’d made it back.”

“I did, thank you.  And thank you for the gift card at the
bookstore, but doing things like that is a sure way to get me to stop offering
to do your errands.”

“Is it now,” he chuckled, knowing full well it would be.

“Here’s your book, by the way.”  I pulled it out from under a
cookbook and set it down in front of him.

“And what did you get for yourself, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“This.”  I held up the cookbook I’d chosen, and he noticed
all the cookbooks then, including the recipe on my laptop.  “I’ve decided
to improve my cooking.”  I couldn’t help but smile, knowing I’d managed to
outsmart him.

“That isn’t necessary.  Your cooking is fine, more than
fine.”  His tone was stern but he was trying hard not to smile back at me.

I shrugged.  “It’s my new summer hobby, what can I say. 
Now,” I got up and started closing books and clearing off the island, "I
need to get started, so unless you don’t want to be served promptly at six, you
should let me get to work.”

“Yes, Miss Lane. See you at six.”  I snuck one last look at
him before he left.  He’d given up trying not to smile and looked as happy
as I’d ever seen him.

Monday night’s dinner had been a big success.  Mr. Hunter
loved the salmon and declared the mashed sweet potatoes one of his
favorites.  I made a mental note to start writing them down.

After a quick breakfast Tuesday morning, I biked into town. 
Tonight’s dinner was going to be kind of French, chicken cordon bleu and
scalloped potatoes.  I asked Pete to wrap up some chicken breasts and also
another pork tenderloin as I was going to going to ask Britt if she wanted to
come out tomorrow, and this would save me a trip back into town.  I picked
up the rest of the things I needed and started pedaling back.  It wasn’t
until I was almost home that it occurred to me to make a dessert.  I
wished I’d thought of that before I went shopping, but there was time to bike
back to town if I had to.

I hurried into the kitchen when I got back and pulled out a couple
of cookbooks.  Madeleines looked easy but required a specific pan.  A
tart would be nice, but I hadn’t bought any fruit this morning and Mr. Hunter
was down to only a couple of apples.  Crème
brȗlée
sounded tricky and had to be browned at the last minute.  Finally I turned
the page to a chocolate mousse recipe.  I scanned the ingredients and
hoped I could find some baking chocolate or cocoa powder.

I was digging around in the pantry when I heard Mr. Hunter come
into the kitchen.

“Mr. Hunter?”  I stuck my head out the pantry door.  “Do
you know if you have any baking chocolate or cocoa?”

“I have no idea.”  He came and stood next to me.  “Ah,
it’s up here.”  He reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a small
tin.

“Being six two has its advantages,” I smiled up at him.

“Yes.  For a while I considered a career in cocoa retrieval,
but the competition was too fierce.”

“Not enough demand?”

“Not the right kind.  But that seems to have changed.  I
may have to rethink my career options.”

We had moved back out to the kitchen by this time.  He
quickly took in the fact that I was in jeans and a pony tail, but he didn’t say
anything.  I made another mental note to change into my uniform as soon as
I got up in the morning.  Wait, what?  Why would I do that? 
Well, what difference would it make?  The dresses were comfortable and I
didn’t mind wearing my hair down.  He obviously preferred me to look a
certain way, and I was looking for ways to please him.

Interrupting my internal debate, Mr. Hunter opened the fridge and
asked me if I’d like a sandwich for lunch.

“Sure, that sounds great.  No meat, though, remember.”

“Right, no meat.  I’ll see what I can do.”

He started pulling various things out of the fridge and placing
them on the island, where he saw the cookbooks out.

“Miss Lane, you aren’t officially at work until this
afternoon.  You’re not trying to sneak in extra hours, are you?”

“Of course not, but I had an idea for a special treat for tonight
and I needed to see if you had the ingredients.”

“Cocoa being one of them?”

“Yep.”

“Are you taking your hostilities out on another cake?”

“Very funny.  Just for that, I’m not telling you. 
You’ll have to wait until dinner to find out.”

He snorted a bit of a laugh and started assembling a
sandwich.  “Miss Lane, since you started working for me, I feel like
that’s all I do.  Wait for dinner.”

It took me a second to catch his meaning and I just looked down,
fighting back the perpetual blush.

“Is Swiss cheese okay?”

“Sure.”

After a few more toppings, he sliced my sandwich in half, put it
on a plate and handed it to me, sitting down across the island with his own.

“This is really good, Mr. Hunter.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it.”  And I did.  I hadn’t been paying attention
to what he’d put in it, but it was the perfect combination of crunchy, spicy,
and something tangy.

“Don’t look so surprised.  I do manage to feed myself during
the day and on weekends even though I don’t particularly enjoy doing so.”

Third mental note to self: make a big meal on Fridays so that the
fridge is full of leftovers for the weekend.

We finished our sandwiches and Mr. Hunter took our plates to the
sink.  “You're vacuuming today, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not working on anything important this afternoon so feel free
to come in and do my office.  That way you won’t have to bring the vacuum
upstairs again tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay.  You’re sure?”

“Yes, Miss Lane.  Or I wouldn’t have offered.”

He gave me one last smile and left.

I vacuumed the whole house, including Mr. Hunter’s office.  I
could tell he was watching me work, so I tried to finish as quickly and
efficiently as possible.  He had to get up so I could reach under his
desk, and he stood by the windows, his hands in his pockets, watching me with
an odd smile on his face.

The chicken had come together nicely.  I’d flattened the
breasts with a mallet, stuffed them with ham and cheese, browned them in a pan
and finished them in the oven.  The scalloped potatoes looked good
too.  The vegetables were almost ready to go, and a serving of chocolate
mousse was chilling in the fridge.

Mr. Hunter was putting his napkin in his lap as I entered the
dining room.

“Good evening, Miss Lane.”

“Good evening, sir.  What can I get you to drink?”

“Well, let’s see.  This looks delicious.  Something
French, obviously.  How about a
voignier
?”

“Is that a kind of wine?”

“Yes, my dear, a white wine.  You’ll find some in the
refrigerator inside the cellar.”

“Yes, sir.  I’ll be right back.”

When I returned with the bottle, he’d already started eating.

I smiled at him as I opened the wine and poured him a glass.

“I could smell this cooking, Miss Lane.  It took all of my
will-power not to come downstairs and see what you were making.”

“You’re always welcome to.”

“I like to be surprised.  Dinner is the only part of my day
that I don’t know what to expect.”

I nodded.  “If that’s all for now, sir, I’ll go back to the
kitchen.”

He looked up at me.  From this angle his eyelashes looked so
long, his cheekbones so sculpted.  Without realizing I was doing it, I bit
my bottom lip.  His eyes moved to my mouth and I quickly released my lip,
folding my hands behind my back.

“Yes, Miss Lane, you may go.  I’ll call you when I need more
wine.”  He took another bite of chicken as I was leaving.

I helped myself to some potatoes and haricots
verts
and sat at the island to wait.  It was about fifteen minutes before he
called me back in to freshen his wine glass and I noticed he only had a few
bites left.

“Miss Lane, wait here beside me as I finish, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, sir.”  I stood like I had before, with my
hands behind my back.

He took the last bite of chicken.  “You do realize that
fixing such delicious meals only works to my benefit.”

“That’s the idea, Mr. Hunter.”

He took a sip of wine and scooped up the last bite of
potatoes.  “And you really don’t have to exert yourself on my behalf, you
do know that, too, right?”

“I know, sir.”

“But I won’t stop you.  This is the best I’ve eaten in
years.”  He smiled up at me and forked the last few beans on his plate.

“Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”  His praise was drawing that
familiar surge of elation from me.  I tightened my hands and looked down
at the floor.

A moment later he was finished, and pushed his plate to the
side.  Then he leaned back in his chair, fingering his wine glass. 
“Now, my dear, I hope tonight’s dessert didn’t fall victim to your violent
temper.”

“No,” I laughed, “I showed mercy today and I think you’ll like
it.”  I picked up his plate and took it to the kitchen, returning with a
small dish of chilled mousse and a dessert spoon.

I put it down in front of him with a smile.  “Can I get you
anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you.”  I started to go but he lifted his
hand.  “Wait just a moment.”  He took a spoonful of mousse.
“Extraordinary.  You made this yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”  I couldn't help but smile as I could see how
much he liked it.

“Is there enough for you to have some?”

“I made a whole batch, but the rest isn’t chilled yet.”

“Sit.”

“Pardon me?”

“Sit.”  He gestured to the chair on his left.  I pulled
it out and sat down.  “You have to try this.”  He lifted his spoon to
my mouth and watched carefully as I closed my lips over it.  “Delicious?”

I nodded as he gently pulled his spoon back and took another
helping for himself.

“I don’t remember the last time I had chocolate mousse.”

“I’m glad you like it, sir.  But I couldn’t have made it
without your cocoa retrieval skills, so you should get partial credit.”

He shook his head.  “No, this is all you.”  He took
another spoonful and lifted it to me.  I opened my mouth for his spoon and
he eased it in gently, again watching my mouth.  This time some mousse
escaped his spoon and he reached up to wipe my lip with his thumb.  I felt
frozen in place as I watched him lick his thumb clean of whatever errant mousse
he’d found on my lips.  “Too good to waste,” he said with a smile.  I
smiled back automatically, but was having difficulty maintaining my
composure.  My pulse had picked up and I surreptitiously clasped my
suddenly shaky hands together in my lap.  I could still feel his thumb on
my lip.  There was only a spoonful left and I watched him take half of it,
then scoop up the last bit and offer it to me again.  I reached for the
spoon this time and he watched me eat it.  Then he sighed, put the spoon
down in the empty dish and stretched back in his chair.

“Another wonderful meal, Miss Lane.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”

He looked at me with half a smile.  “Thank you for sharing
dessert with me.”

“You’re welcome.”

He rested another minute or two and then put his napkin on the
table.  “I’m going to do a little more work. I’ll see you in the
morning.”  He seemed reluctant to go, but finally rose and pushed in his
chair.  I did the same.

“Goodnight, Mr. Hunter.”

“Goodnight, Miss Lane.”

I cleared his dishes, started the dishwasher, wiped the counter
tops and set up the coffee, on auto-pilot while I struggled to comprehend why
his feeding me the mousse had affected me so strongly.  I replayed the
moment in my mind and realized that it wasn’t being asked to sit with him at
the table, or sharing his spoon.  It was when he’d wiped my lip with his
thumb and then put it back in his mouth.  Just as I was turning out the
light, I finally figured it out.

I felt like Mr. Hunter had kissed me.

That night I lay in bed, slowly drawing my fingers over the velvet
bedspread.  I was imagining what it would feel like if Mr. Hunter really
kissed me.  I knew his beard felt raspy but his lips looked soft.  So
soft.  I remembered how good he'd smelled when I’d hugged him in the
garage, and how strong his arms had felt the night he carried me upstairs.

I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow with a quiet
groan.  I had it bad.  Really bad.  For my boss.  I wanted
Mr. Hunter.  I’d tried to fight it, but every time he called me his dear,
every time he complimented my cooking, every time he did something nice for me,
my defenses gave a little and tonight when he fed me the mousse, they’d thrown
up the white rag of surrender.  I wanted him.  I wanted him more than
I’d ever wanted anyone before in my life.

The problem was I didn’t have a clue what to do about it.  I
didn’t know if he felt the same way about me.  I knew he liked me, cared
about my safety and wanted me to be happy.  He’d given me signals that I
was attractive to him, but I didn’t know how much stock to put into them. 
Maybe he routinely chose uniforms for his housekeepers that flattered their
coloring.  But Mrs. Sheridan hadn’t been wearing a dress the two times I’d
met her; she’d been in pants and, yes, I remembered, a different top each
time. 

But maybe he routinely fingered his housekeepers’ hair, their
necklaces, maybe he routinely fed them mousse.  I couldn’t imagine it
happening with Mrs. Sheridan.  No way.  But that still didn’t mean he
wanted me the way I did him.  In his eyes, I might just be a pretty new
toy to play with, a young, eager-to-please new housekeeper on whom he could
practice his manners, his teasing, his flirting.  He was so much better
looking than I, it just didn’t make sense.

Okay, Sylvia, I thought, try to be rational about this.  If
he doesn’t like you ‘that way,’ what are you going to do?  I’m going to
continue with my duties, finish out the summer, try not to torture myself too
much over him, and move on with my life in the fall, I answered myself. 
Good.  You can do that.  And if he does like you ‘that way’ and
eventually makes a pass at you?  I’m going to grab a hold of him and
ravish him on the spot.  Really, Sylvia?  Really, Sylvia, I answered
myself with a chuckle.  Obediently, of course.