My heart did its little Knox-induced trill. No matter how many times I saw him, he stole my breath away. Even when he was glowering at my food.
“What kind of macaroni and cheese?” he asked.
Was that a trick question? “Um . . . the regular kind you buy at the grocery store?”
Eloise appeared behind Knox’s shoulder, pushing past him into the room. “Hey. What’s going on?”
Knox tossed a hand in my direction. “I came in to inventory the coffee supply. She’s eating macaroni and
cheese.”
Eloise’s gaze, the same striking color as her brother’s, darted to my lunch. She cringed. “Oh. Is, um . . . is that the blue box kind?”
“Yes.”
She scrunched up her nose, then turned and disappeared down the hallway.
“What’s wrong with the blue box kind?” It was the cheapest. And I was using my dollars wisely.
One day, I’d move out of Knox’s loft. One day, I’d like to have my own home. One day, I’d like to have a garden and a fenced yard where Drake could have a puppy.
One day.
If I was going to make it to that one day, it would require sacrifices like blue box mac ’n’ cheese and ramen noodles.
Knox walked over, straight into my space, and I tilted up my chin to keep his face in view. He frowned and swiped up my plastic container, walking it to the garbage can in the corner. One tap on the side and my noodles went plopping to the bottom of the black liner.
“Hey.” I shot out of my chair. “That was my lunch.”
And I couldn’t afford to walk down Main to a restaurant for a replacement. Damn him. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my mouth shut.
Don’t call him an asshole. Don’t call him an asshole.
“We have a rule in this building,” he said, going to the break room’s cupboard where we kept the coffee. He opened
the door, surveyed the contents, then scribbled something on his notepad. “No blue box mac ’n’ cheese.”
“Well, I didn’t know that rule. Next time, tell me the rules and I’ll be sure to follow them. But don’t throw my lunch away. I’m hungry.” On cue, my stomach growled.
“Come on,” he ordered and strode from the room.
I sighed, my shoulders slumping, and trudged behind him with my fork still in hand.
Knox didn’t so much as spare me a glance as he led the way to Knuckles.
It was still early, only eleven fifteen, but already half of the tables were full. Two waitresses moved around the room, delivering menus and glasses of water.
Knox strode past the Please Seat Yourself sign, following the main aisle through the room.
I hadn’t been in here with the lights on. When Eloise had brought me through on my first day of work for the tour, it had been dark and quiet. Even now with the pendants glowing and light streaming through the exterior wall’s windows, the room held a dim edge.
The style fit Knox. Modern and moody and masculine.
Exposed brick. Deep wall color. Rich wood tones. Cognac leather booths. It was exactly the style my father loved for his hotel restaurants.
All that was missing from a Ward Hotel eatery was the dress code. Dad required men wear a jacket and tie. He also required his housekeepers and desk clerks wear uniforms. I was happy that Knuckles and The Eloise were so laid-back, that my jeans and tees and tennis shoes were standard housekeeping attire.
People waved when they spotted Knox. He nodded and waved back but didn’t slow his pace. He breezed past them, and in his wake, faces turned my way.
I ducked my chin and kept my eyes on the floor, not wanting to be noticed.
Old Memphis—the naive, spoiled girl—would have strutted through a room like this. She would have reveled in the attention. She would have accentuated every step with the click of a stiletto heel that cost thousands of dollars. She would have had diamonds in her ears and gold on her wrists.
She would have sat at the best seat in the restaurant, ordered the most expensive meal and picked at her food, letting most of it be thrown in the trash.
How many housekeepers had I walked past in my lifetime?
I’d never acknowledged a single one. Or the maids who’d worked on my parents’ estate. If a housekeeper had walked by, Old Memphis would have turned up her nose.
Old Memphis was dead. I’d killed that version of myself.
I’d stabbed her to death with the shards of a broken heart.
Good riddance. Old Memphis, though not all bad, had been a brat. Soft and silly. She wouldn’t have survived the past year. She would have caved and given into her family’s demands. She wouldn’t have been the mother that Drake needed.