“I know,” he says before I can get out my protest of innocence. “Nina is… high strung. But she has a good heart.”
“Yeah…”
He pulls off his dark jacket and starts rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt. “Let me help you get this cleaned up.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’ll be faster if we work together.”
He goes into the closet by the kitchen and pulls out the mop—I’m shocked he knew exactly where it was. Actually, he knows his way around the closet of cleaning supplies very well. And now I get it. Nina has done things like this before. He’s gotten used to cleaning up her messes.
But still, I work here now. This isn’t his job.
“I’ll clean it up.” I put my hand on the mop he’s holding and tug it away from him. “You’re all dressed up, and this is what I’m here for.”
For a moment, he holds onto the mop. Then he allows me to take it from him. “Okay, thanks, Millie. I appreciate your hard work.”
At least somebody does.
As I get to work cleaning the kitchen, I think back to the photograph on the mantle of Andrew and Nina when they were first together, before they were married, before they had Cecelia. They look so young and happy together. It’s obvious Andrew is still crazy about Nina, but something has changed. I can sense it. Nina isn’t the person she used to be.
But it doesn’t matter. It’s none of my business.
EIGHT
Nina must have thrown half the contents of the refrigerator on the kitchen floor, so I have to make a run to the grocery store today. Since apparently, I’m also going to be cooking for them, I select some raw meat and seasoning that I can use to throw together a few meals. Nina loaded her credit card onto my phone. Everything I buy will be automatically charged to their account.
In prison, the food options were not too exciting. The menu rotated between chicken, hamburgers, hotdogs, lasagna, burritos, and a mysterious fish patty that always made me gag. There would be vegetables on the side that would be cooked to the point of disintegration. I used to fantasize about what I would eat when I got out, but on my budget, the options weren’t much better. I could only buy what was on sale, and once I was living in my car, I was even more restricted.
It’s different shopping for the Winchesters. I go straight for the finest cuts of steak—I’ll look up on YouTube how to cook them. I sometimes used to cook steak for my father, but that was a long time ago. If I buy expensive ingredients, they’ll come out good no matter what I do.
When I get back to the Winchester house, I’ve got four overflowing bags of groceries in the trunk of my car. Nina and Andrew’s cars take up the two spots in the garage, and she instructed me not to park in the driveway, so I have to leave my car on the street. As I’m fumbling to get the bags out of the trunk, the landscaper Enzo emerges from the house next to ours with some sort of scary gardening device in his right hand.
Enzo notices me struggling, and after a moment of hesitation, he jogs over to my car. He frowns at me. “I do it,” he says in his heavily accented English.
I start to take one of the bags, but then he scoops all four of them up in his massive arms, and he carries them to the front door. He nods at the door, waiting patiently for me to unlock it. I do it as quickly as possible, given that he’s carrying about eighty pounds’ worth of groceries in his arms. He stomps his boots on the welcome mat, then carries the groceries the rest of the way into the kitchen and deposits them on the kitchen counter.
“Gracias,” I say.
His lips twitch. “No. Grazie.”
“Grazie,” I repeat.
He lingers in the kitchen for a moment, his brows knitted together. I notice again that Enzo is handsome, in a dark and terrifying sort of way. He’s got tattoos on his upper arms, partially obscured by his T-shirt—I can make out the name “Antonia” inscribed in a heart on his right biceps. Those muscular arms could kill me without him even breaking a sweat if he got it in his head to do so. But I don’t get a sense that this man wants to hurt me at all. If anything, he seems concerned about me.
I remember what he mumbled to me before Nina interrupted us the other day. Pericolo. Danger. What was he trying to tell me? Does he think I’m in danger here?
Maybe I should download a translator app on my phone. He could type in what he wants to tell me and—
A noise from upstairs interrupts my thoughts. Enzo sucks in a breath. “I go,” he says, turning on his heel and striding back toward the door.