Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs pulls me from my reverie, steadying my hand and heart as I push thoughts of Foster aside.
“Mazzy, I didn’t know you were here,” Bowie Jane says, her voice a mixture of surprise and delight. I really like the delight part because I’m crazy about this kid and it’s nice to know she feels the same way.
I beam a smile back at her, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel. “Just walked in a few minutes ago. Getting started on dinner.”
Bowie Jane glances over her shoulder toward the staircase, her small brow furrowing in thought. I can tell she’s torn between staying here with me and going back to whatever she was doing.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask, hoping to ease her apparent dilemma.
She turns to me, her ponytail swishing. “In the attic, but he’s coming down soon. He needs to talk to you.” Her tone is casual, but there’s a hint of curiosity in her eyes that I can’t quite decipher.
I nod, a small flutter of unease stirring in my stomach. Foster needing to talk to me isn’t unusual, but the way Bowie Jane says it makes it sound important. I need to focus on the here and now.
“What do you say we get started on that stir-fried chicken?” I suggest, aiming for a cheerful tone to keep the mood light. “You can be my sous-chef.”
Bowie Jane’s face brightens immediately, her earlier contemplation replaced by the prospect of helping out. She’s an amazing kid who’s always willing to do whatever is asked of her with very little grumbling. “Can I cut the vegetables?” she asks eagerly, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.
“Of course, Chef,” I reply with a grin, handing her a small, safe knife and guiding her to wash her hands. “But remember like I taught you… very slow, absolute concentration.”
I watch over Bowie Jane carefully as she cuts the vegetables. She goes slowly and focuses hard on the task at hand. I keep my eyes on what she’s doing because a ten-year-old with a sharp knife requires that. It also lets me push aside the complexity of my conflicting emotions. I focus instead on the present, on Bowie Jane, and the comfort of being in this kitchen. But in the back of my mind, I can’t shake off the anticipation of Foster coming down and the conversation that awaits.
Just as Bowie Jane is finishing the last of the green onions, slicing them with an attentiveness that’s both endearing and amusing, I hear the unmistakable sound of Foster’s heavier footsteps descending the staircase. My heart does an involuntary skip. He enters the kitchen, and God… why does he have to look so good? And why am I so pleased that there’s a flicker of delight in his eyes when he sees me? It sends a confusing mix of warmth and apprehension swirling through me, and I have no business feeling this way.
“Hey,” he greets, his deep voice intensifying my jitters. Thank God I’m not cutting vegetables right now or I’d be at risk of slicing my finger again.
I manage a small “Hey” in return as I tuck my hair behind my ears.
A silence falls between us, heavy and awkward. I busy myself with wiping down the counter, even though it’s already spotless, just to have something to do with my hands.
Foster breaks the silence, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Was in the attic looking for an extra gear bag I thought I had,” he says, an attempt at casual conversation that doesn’t quite hide the undercurrent of something more serious.
“Do you need me to do anything to help get you ready for your trip?” That sounds professional, right?
“No, all good,” he replies, his gaze shifting to Bowie Jane, who’s watching us with a serious expression. It’s clear she senses something more is going on here. Foster meets her gaze and says pointedly, “Hey, honey… do you mind going upstairs for a bit so I can talk to Mazzy privately?”
The moment he says it, a wave of dread washes over me, cold and unwelcome. My mind races to the worst possible scenarios. Is he going to fire me? Tell me he doesn’t need me anymore? Maybe he’s upset I’m the one who stopped the almost-kiss although he hasn’t seemed angry these past few days. Everything’s been normal, except for my constant thoughts about it.
“Sure, no problem,” Bowie Jane chirps, seemingly oblivious to the tension. She bounds out of the kitchen and up the stairs, leaving us alone in a silence that now feels even heavier.
I turn to face Foster, my heart pounding in my chest. I brace myself for whatever is coming, trying to keep my face composed. But inside, I’m a storm of anxiety and unanswered questions, the memory of four days ago looming large in the space between us.