used?
Nicole set the kitchen table, making it look as nice as possible. For napkins she folded paper towels in half. She popped the ceramic container of enchiladas into the microwave and turned it on, then arranged the side dishes she’d made on the table. There were only two choices of beverage: tap water and a six-pack of soda in the fridge. Not knowing what he’d prefer, Nicole put both soda cans and filled water glasses at each place setting.
The appetizing aroma of the heating casserole filled the kitchen. She wondered if Michael would smell it and come out of the study on his own.
As Nicole listened to the hum of the microwave, she stood at the kitchen’s rear-facing window looking out at the tree-shrouded, white landscape. Incredibly, it was still snowing with no sign of stopping. There was a kind of beauty to the wild, wintry tempest, but Nicole was grateful to be inside, warm, and dry. It had only been twenty-four hours since she’d awakened to find herself in this house under Michael’s care, yet it seemed like weeks—and even longer since she’d seen a blue sky and sun, sent an email, or watched TV. It felt odd to be so cut
The microwave dinged and the room fell silent again. The only times Nicole could remember being surrounded by such deep quiet were the hours she’d spent on ski slopes. It was a wonderful, calming environment, and for the first time since she arrived, she felt herself truly begin to relax.
Using kitchen towels as hot pads, Nicole retrieved the piping hot casserole and set it on the table, then surveyed the display. It looked both colorful and inviting. With a smile, she strode to Michael’s study door and rapped lightly. There was no answer. She tried again, louder, calling out, “Michael?”
His quiet footsteps approached and then the door was thrown open. Michael’s mouth was set in a deep scowl and his blue eyes flashed dangerously.
“What do you want?”
“I—” Nicole faltered. “I thought you might be hungry. It’s way past lunchtime, so I made us something to eat.”
“I’m working,” he said irritably. “And I told you: I prefer to dine alone.”
“I know, but I thought . . . surely you can take a break. Come see what I made. It’s on the table. It’s—”
“I’m not hungry,” he snapped, “so don’t bother me about food or anything else. Just stay in your corner of the house, and I’ll stay in mine.” He slammed the door in her face.
For the second time that day, Nicole stood frozen in dumbfounded silence. This time, anger rose within her. What a , she thought. What a rude, insensitive asshole . After all the trouble she’d gone to, he couldn’t even be bothered to take a look or a bite? Or at the very least, to thank her for thinking of him?
Nicole marched back into the kitchen, fuming, the knots in her stomach tangling with her ravenous appetite. Heatedly, she spooned heaping portions of the three dishes onto her plate. Who did he think he was? Being rich and successful didn’t give him the right to treat her like some insignificant, nagging nuisance. She was only trying to be nice!
Nicole stood at the counter and shoveled the food into her mouth, hardly tasting it. What was his problem? Was he bipolar and off his meds? Or was there something he wasn’t telling her? A reason he couldn’t or wouldn’t be intimate? The way he barked at her reminded her of an ex-boyfriend from college. Anytime he felt his masculinity or personal space being threatened, he went nuts and treated her like garbage. Was that what was going on, an introvert’s neuroses entwined with male bravado? Had she completely misinterpreted his feelings in the workshop? But how could she have?
Well, whatever. He’d made it clear, once again, that he didn’t want her here. Thank God it would only be for a couple more days.
Nicole couldn’t find any plastic wrap or storage containers for the leftovers, which only added to her cantankerous mood. She slammed the salads
Nicole set the kitchen table, making it look as nice as possible. For napkins she folded paper towels in half. She popped the ceramic container of enchiladas into the microwave and turned it on, then arranged the side dishes she’d made on the table. There were only two choices of beverage: tap water and a six-pack of soda in the fridge. Not knowing what he’d prefer, Nicole put both soda cans and filled water glasses at each place setting.
The appetizing aroma of the heating casserole filled the kitchen. She wondered if Michael would smell it and come out of the study on his own.
As Nicole listened to the hum of the microwave, she stood at the kitchen’s rear-facing window looking out at the tree-shrouded, white landscape. Incredibly, it was still snowing with no sign of stopping. There was a kind of beauty to the wild, wintry tempest, but Nicole was grateful to be inside, warm, and dry. It had only been twenty-four hours since she’d awakened to find herself in this house under Michael’s care, yet it seemed like weeks—and even longer since she’d seen a blue sky and sun, sent an email, or watched TV. It felt odd to be so cut
The microwave dinged and the room fell silent again. The only times Nicole could remember being surrounded by such deep quiet were the hours she’d spent on ski slopes. It was a wonderful, calming environment, and for the first time since she arrived, she felt herself truly begin to relax.
Using kitchen towels as hot pads, Nicole retrieved the piping hot casserole and set it on the table, then surveyed the display. It looked both colorful and inviting. With a smile, she strode to Michael’s study door and rapped lightly. There was no answer. She tried again, louder, calling out, “Michael?”
His quiet footsteps approached and then the door was thrown open. Michael’s mouth was set in a deep scowl and his blue eyes flashed dangerously.
“What do you want?”
“I—” Nicole faltered. “I thought you might be hungry. It’s way past lunchtime, so I made us something to eat.”
“I’m working,” he said irritably. “And I told you: I prefer to dine alone.”
“I know, but I thought . . . surely you can take a break. Come see what I made. It’s on the table. It’s—”
“I’m not hungry,” he snapped, “so don’t bother me about food or anything else. Just stay in your corner of the house, and I’ll stay in mine.” He slammed the door in her face.
For the second time that day, Nicole stood frozen in dumbfounded silence. This time, anger rose within her. What a , she thought. What a rude, insensitive asshole . After all the trouble she’d gone to, he couldn’t even be bothered to take a look or a bite? Or at the very least, to thank her for thinking of him?
Nicole marched back into the kitchen, fuming, the knots in her stomach tangling with her ravenous appetite. Heatedly, she spooned heaping portions of the three dishes onto her plate. Who did he think he was? Being rich and successful didn’t give him the right to treat her like some insignificant, nagging nuisance. She was only trying to be nice!
Nicole stood at the counter and shoveled the food into her mouth, hardly tasting it. What was his problem? Was he bipolar and off his meds? Or was there something he wasn’t telling her? A reason he couldn’t or wouldn’t be intimate? The way he barked at her reminded her of an ex-boyfriend from college. Anytime he felt his masculinity or personal space being threatened, he went nuts and treated her like garbage. Was that what was going on, an introvert’s neuroses entwined with male bravado? Had she completely misinterpreted his feelings in the workshop? But how could she have?
Well, whatever. He’d made it clear, once again, that he didn’t want her here. Thank God it would only be for a couple more days.
Nicole couldn’t find any plastic wrap or storage containers for the leftovers, which only added to her cantankerous mood. She slammed the salads
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