How had I not seen this? How could I be so blind? The Edens were a wealthy and well-known family. Wealthy and well-known families didn’t associate with people like me unless they were trying to save them. Save the poor people.
How many galas had I attended where that had been the unspoken cause?
I was the poor, helpless woman who’d come to Quincy with her belongings in the trunk of a car. I was the woman who couldn’t afford decent meals, so I got the leftovers. I was the girl who’d never cleaned a room before her first day as a housekeeper.
Eloise had given me compliment after compliment since I’d started working at the hotel. But she swept through every room after I was done. Every single one. She always had one or two pairs of white slippers in her hand, a complimentary gift for the guests. Except I could have added the slippers myself.
Had she fixed my mistakes? Had she sent in another housekeeper to clean what I’d missed?
My stomach was in knots by the time I parked in the garage at home. I took Drake inside and fed him a bottle before peeling off his silly costume. More cotton balls came loose and by the time I had him naked for his bath, it all sat in a sad heap on the floor.
I’d hoped to save that costume, to put it in a bin with his baby shoes and hospital bracelet. Instead, when Drake was dressed in his pajamas and in his bouncer, I balled it up and
tossed it in the trash. It was garbage. It hurt so badly that I pressed a hand to my chest, rubbing at the ache.
The phone rang from where I’d left it on the kitchen counter. I froze, staring at it from a distance. The name was unreadable from where I stood but I knew who it was.
Let it ring.
But I moved closer, staring at that green button.
This could all stop. The hard work. The tears. The pain.
All I had to do was answer that call. All I had to do was hit that green button.
No more rent checks. No more time clocks. No more toilet-bowl cleaner and rubber gloves.
No more Eden family charity.
I raised my hand, my finger poised above the screen. One touch to answer phone call number 127 and life would be easier again.
All I had to do was sacrifice . . . me.
All I had to do was give up.
Don’t give up.
Give up, Memphis.
My hand trembled and I touched the screen. But I was too late. It had already kicked to my voicemail.
The air rushed from my lungs and that’s when the tears came in steady streams with sobs that I’d been holding back for too long.
The sound of knuckles tapping on my door cut through my hysterics. My face whipped to the window, and there he stood.
His expression was unreadable. I hadn’t heard him drive in or pull into the garage.
I turned away so he couldn’t see me wipe away the tears.
He’d caught me crying, but considering I cried most days, considering he was probably here just to drop off a meal because it would be bad if their charity case starved to death, who the hell cared?
Not me. Not anymore. I was numb.
I squared my shoulders and walked to the door. The second I flipped the lock, he marched inside, stomping off his boots.
And then he looked down at me with a scowl, like my tears just pissed him off. “If you want to pay more rent, fine. Pay more rent.”
“I do. And I want you to stop making me food.”
“No.”
“I’m not a charity case, Knox.”
His hands fisted on his hips. “Is that what you think? That I cook for you because you can’t cook for yourself?”
“Well . . . yes.”
He scoffed, turning his head to the ceiling. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he muttered something. Then he faced me again, taking a long step forward to crowd my space. “I cook for you because it’s how I show someone I care. I cook for you because I love the look on your face after that first bite. I cook for you because I’d rather cook for you than anyone else.”
“What?” My jaw dropped.
“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with you, woman.”
My mouth was still open.
Which suited Knox just fine.
Because he raised his hands, framed my face. Then sealed his lips over mine.
CHAPTER TEN
KNOX
Iwas a man who remembered few kisses. Maybe that was a guy thing. But I could only recall with clarity three.
My first. It was the summer before my freshman year in high school with a girl— what was her name? —at the summer fair. Then there was the time I’d kissed one of Lyla’s friends when she’d been over for a sleepover. Memorable not because of the actual kiss, but because Dad had busted us making out in the closet and the next day he’d made me stack hay bales for eight hours.