Still, I've had enough workplace hostility to last me a lifetime.
“That's not...” Grim's mouth contorts into a deeper grimace. “I'm sorry.”
I wait.
She rakes her fingers through her hair, glares at the ground for a long moment, clenching and unclenching her jaw. “I'm sorry,” she repeats, and she's glancing up at me again, her amber eyes so bright that they look as if they're on fire. “I'm... Bella, it's hard for me...” She's searching for words that aren't coming.
I take this in, surprised. Grim is ever poised, always in control. That's her superpower. That's what makes her seem so strong.
That's part of what has drawn me to her. She's cool, aloof, kind of larger than life.
She closes her mouth again, and calmness smooths her features. “I'm not—we're not—used to having someone like you around.”
“Like me?”
“So...” She frowns. “So new.” Again, it's a carefully chosen word. I can tell that she wants to say more, but she holds herself back, sighing.
“Okay. I gathered that. But, if you aren't comfortable with having me here, why did you hire me?” I ask quietly, spreading my hands, my purse's strap sliding down my shoulder; it drops to the crook of my elbow, where it swings in the stillness. I hold my arms open, feeling raw, vulnerable, exposed. “You didn't have to hire me, Grim.”
“But I did,” she whispers.
I stare at her. I stare at her in the dark, and my heart thunders as she takes one step toward me, and then another. These steps are so slow that you might think she was uncertain in her advance. But no—the opposite is true.
I've never witnessed a more deliberate action than Grim's movement. Every step is as well-choreographed as if she rehearsed it, as if she considered, over and over again, the best manner in which to move closer—almost like she's worried of frightening me off.
“I hired you...” She pauses, works her jaw.
I'm patient. I watch her, silent.
“Because I...” Again, she stops, frustrated, and shakes her head. “Because we needed you.” There's a strange, soft warmth to her words.
Need. That's an odd way to put it. And I don't buy it. I narrow my eyes at her. “I'm intruding. I'm...not welcome.”
“No.” She takes one last step, closing the distance between us, and she reaches up; I think she's going to touch me, think she's going to brush her fingers along the curve of my elbow, but she stops herself. I can feel the heat of her palm against my skin, even though her hand is an inch or two above my arm. Her heat—it radiates.
Like fire.
Her gaze leaves my eyes, trails over my face, and it feels as if she's touching me, her hot fingertips grazing my flesh. She stares at my mouth, then, and in the darkness of the hallway, beneath the glittering amber of her eyes, I open my lips, my breath coming faster.
Grim's controlled exterior seems to be loosening by degrees. My palms are slick with sweat, my chest rises and falls too quickly, and I'm suddenly aware of the fact that I smell like sauteed onions, and I really wish I didn't, because the scent is in my hair, and, oh, God, can she smell it? I really just want to kiss her.
Which is ludicrous, right? She's my boss. And she just snapped at me in the car.
But...but her mouth, though.
Her, though.
“Bella.” Grim speaks the word softly, like the beginning of a prayer. And I can feel my entire body reacting her voice. “I trust you,” she tells me.
“You...do?”
“Yes. And I need someone who I can trust.”
There's that word again—need.
Her gaze flicks from my mouth to my eyes again. “You were kind to that woman, Betty, when you didn't have to be. I saw, heard,” she says. “I knew you were giving her family free food. Andrew—he can be despicable. But you stood up to him. You helped your friend, even though it cost you your job. That type of loyalty... It's rare. And precious.”
Wow.
I wasn't expecting that.
“Thank you.”
Still, my mind buzzes with confusion. “But I don't understand. Why do you need someone you can trust? I'm only cooking food for you, not...” Not marrying you, is the phrase that comes to mind, and my cheeks flush at the ridiculous thought. I shake my head, leave my sentence unfinished.
She glances away from me, staring at one of the flickering torches. “You can keep a secret.”
The words hang between us, heavy and important.
“You have secrets?” I ask quietly. It's a stupid question. Of course she has secrets; otherwise, she wouldn't have mentioned the topic at all.
“Doesn't everyone?” comes her elusive reply. She watches me with pain-filled eyes, as if, with each inquiry, I'm twisting a knife between her ribs.
I try to lighten the mood: “Oh, well, I'm...I'm an open book.” I give her a soft smile. “Let's see... I love French fries, cheesy movies, historical romance novels. I think my only secret is which ingredients I use in my Pasta Supreme recipe. And that knowledge is totally off limits.”
Her face betrays her: she's grateful that I've joked, smiled. She nods, and then she's searching my face one last time. “Forgive me for my unkindness, Bella,” she murmurs, then smiles self-deprecatingly. “I'm nothing but a beast, after all.”
I redden so fast that the skin around my eyes burns. My mouth is suddenly too dry to speak.
Oh, God. She heard Pam and me talking about her at the diner.
She heard what Pam called her.
My heart breaks, and I start to stammer an explanation, an apology, but Grim holds up a casual, silencing hand.
“She's right,” she says, and watches me steadily, her expression blank.
“No, no.” I shake my head adamantly, and then I reach up, and I touch her arm. My fingers brush against the leather, and I'm surprised by how hot the fabric is. Not in some sort of metaphoric, “God, she's so hot” kind of way, but, seriously, genuinely hot. As if Grim is feverish.
She actually looks a little feverish, with her too-bright gaze that roves my face, my mouth, my chest—almost hungrily. She licks her lips, asks, “What are you doing?” with a nod to my hand.
“Oh.” I let go, take a step back. “I'm sorry.” Feeling foolish, I shake my head. She's angling away from me now. The moment before, heat ricocheted between us...
But it's gone.
She draws herself up to her full height and levels me with a detached, professional expression. Again, her face is as still as if she were wearing a mask.
“The kitchen is that way. Third door after the corner.”
“Right.” I nod, embarrassed, and turn to go.
I almost reach the corner before she calls out to me: “Bella.”
When I whirl around to look at her, her hands are fisted, her jaw tense. “You can...you can stay here. If you want,” she growls.
I stare.
“I mean, I...I'd like you to cook every meal for us. And I don't think you have a car. Do you have a car?”
I shake my head in wonder as I watch her.
“We have many rooms that aren't being used here. Dozens. You'd get room and board, along with your paycheck. Think about it.” She doesn't wait for my answer; she turns, and she paces out of sight.
My heart thrums like a drumbeat in my chest—too fast, too hard.
Grim just invited me to live here?
Chapter 8: The Fight
Under ordinary circumstances, I would call Pam right now. I mean, she's my best friend, and she's been my best friend for so long that she often knows me better than I know myself. But as close as we are, we can still hurt one another. Our closeness makes harsh words even more painful to hear.
And when I last saw her, Pam's wasn't acting like herself. She has a fiery personality, sure. She has a temper. But she doesn't hate. It's...weird. And agonizing. I want to repair things between us.
When I reach the kitchen, I turn on the lights; they flicker for a moment before stabilizing. Then, beneath th
e fluorescent glow, I glance around, shivering a little and rubbing at my arms. Kitchens are supposed to be warm, cozy. But this kitchen is kind of like a morgue. It's so unwelcoming.
If I keep working here, I'll have to do something about that.
If.
I open my purse, reach inside. Grim asked me to make dinner, but of course she gave me no instruction, so I can't exactly start preparing food yet...
My hands are shaking as I pick up my phone and stare down at its lock screen: a selfie of Pam and me making faces during one of our girls' nights out. The picture has always brought a smile to my face, but now I frown a little, then trace my finger across the screen to open the phone.
My hands are still shaking as I call up my text screen. I keep thinking of Grim, keep thinking about our strange exchange in the hallway...
When a sexy woman tells you that she has secrets in a husky, growly voice, that's going to create all sorts of confusing thoughts—including a daydream about your undergarments flying off as you tackle her.
(At least...that's true for me. I hope I'm not alone in this.)
So, yeah, now I'm Very Confused, and all I know for sure is that I really want to patch things up with Pam. I bring up my last text conversation with her and start to type. Then I erase what I've typed, second-guessing myself.
I flick my gaze to the time: it's only seven o'clock. The classic “u up?” isn't going to work in this situation. So I just text her a single, simple word. Testing the waters.
Hey.
I set the phone down on the counter, and I'm about to head to the fridge, start to ponder over dinner options, when my phone makes a little chirp.
She texted me back.
I pick the phone up, biting my lip as I open the lock screen again.
She texted: I'm sorry.
I call her immediately, and she picks up on the first ring.
“Bella, I'm sorry.” She sounds as if she's in pain, and I make a little sound.
“It's okay,” I tell her immediately, and she snorts on the other end of the line.
“Like hell it is. I'm sorry—that was such an asshole move. After you'd had a rough day, too. I'm a jerk. Forgive?”
This is the second time in a handful of moments that someone's asking me to forgive them. I wrinkle my brow, say, “It's okay, Pammie. Just...Grim's my boss now, so... And, I mean, she really did get me out of a jam. I have a paycheck again, and that's kind of important.”
And...apparently I also have a new place to live, if I want it.
I don't want to tell Pam about that over the phone, especially since our last conversation ended so terribly. But the possibility is weighing on me, and Pam needs to know about Grim's offer—an offer I'm tentatively considering...
I don't think she's going to react well.
Call it a gut feeling.
“So, Grim and I just had a talk,” I begin.
Pam falls silent, listening. Still, I can hear her worry, even though she's not saying a thing.
I force out the words in a nervous rush: “Well, she wants me to cook three meals a day for her family, and because I don't have a car, she said that I could stay in one of the spare rooms here. It would save me money on bus fare, you know?”
Pam doesn't reply.
“I know that we were splitting the rent,” I stammer. “And I don't want to leave you in the lurch, obviously, so—”
“Leave me in the lurch?” Her words sound bitter, cold as ice. There's silence for another long moment before she blurts out, “What the fuck, Bella?”
Startled, I work my jaw, bite my tongue.
“You don't even know if this is going to work out. Why the hell would you move in with the Beast?”
Stunned, I search for the right words, but then she asks me, her voice low, bitter, “Are you two fucking?”
It feels like a punch to my gut. Two punches to the gut, the other one leveled when I'm already down, already breathless.
I whisper, “That's mean, Pam.”
“Well? Are you?”
There is judgment in her tone—and revulsion. I know it's not because I'm gay. Pam's been there with me from the beginning, has stuck with me through every crush, every girlfriend. No, this has nothing to do with the fact that Grim is a woman.
It has to do with the fact that she's Grim.
“Why do you have this vendetta against her?” I'm so upset that I nearly drop the phone. “I understand if you're upset that you'll have to find a new roommate. I haven't decided anything yet, though. I was asking for your opinion. Your advice. But you've...you've told me all I need to know.”
“Bella.” The word is sharp, slicing. “Grim is a freak,” she says, speaking slowly, as if she's explaining something to a child, “and you need to stop working for her. Do you understand me? And you sure as hell shouldn't live in her building.”
“What evidence do you have that she's a bad person?” I refuse to use that word, freak. “Seriously, Pam? What can you tell me about her to support your argument?”
Of course Pam says nothing, because she has nothing to say. She'd only tell me again about her “bad feeling,” that Grim gives her goosebumps.
“Pam, I love you,” I tell her, and I'm already choking on the words, choking down tears. “I would appreciate it if you'd support me. I mean, you always have. And I've always supported you. We've always been there for each other. Please don't—”
“Bella, you're making a big mistake. Goodbye.”
And then my best friend, my lifelong best friend, hangs up on me.
I stand there, my heart hammering against my ribs as I stare at the phone in my hand.
What...just happened?
I drop the phone to the counter, massage my temples. I'm standing on the precipice of a whopper-style headache.
That...wasn't like Pam, not at all. What does she have against Grim? It can't just be a bad feeling. She's keeping something from me.
God, this whole thing is ludicrous.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I'm trying to be stoic, refusing to let the tears fall. But I'm pretty much going to start sobbing any second now, and I know it. I wrap my arms tightly around myself, try to hold in the pain...
I hear a footfall on the stairs and swipe at my eyes with the edge of my sleeve. I sniff, turning toward the door, expecting to see Grim coming down the steps.
But no—it's Rex.
He pauses in the doorway, head tilted, his little brow wrinkled with concern. His pet mouse is currently standing on top of his head, staring at me with a lot of seriousness.
“Hey, Pretty,” says Rex carefully. “Were you crying?”
“Me?” I want to deny it, but Rex is a kid—and kids are as perceptive as all get out. They know when you're lying to them. So I put my elbows on the counter and lean forward a little, nodding. “Yeah, Rex. I was.”
“What for? Don't you like us?” He trots over, his amber eyes wide with worry. Mr. Cheese stares at me, too, but he's not worried. At least, I don't think he is. Admittedly, it's hard to tell. I don't have a lot of experience reading mouse facial expressions.
“No, no,” I tell him hastily, even though I'm not so sure as to the truth of that statement. Lucile and Jordan can't help their idiosyncrasies...but a little kindness goes a long way.
I gaze down at the boy and reflect that kindness is a two-way street. Sure, Lucile and Jordan were jerks to me. But Rex sure as heck wasn't. He went out of his way to help me out.
Besides, just because a couple of people acted like jerks doesn't mean I should do the same in return.
I kneel down in front of Rex until I'm about eye-level with him. “You have friends, right, Rex?”
“Sure,” he scoffs, putting a slight swagger into his stance. “Lots.”
“Have you ever gotten into a fight with any of them?”
He looks at me with round eyes. “All the time! Do you, too?”
I laugh a little. “I'm talking about big fights. Like, the kind of fights where
feelings are hurt.”
He looks confused for a moment, but then something dark, vulnerable, and sad passes over his expression—a little intense for a kid so young. “Yeah, I have.”
I smile sympathetically. “Well, that just happened with me and my best friend today. We fought. And it hurts. And I was sad about it. That's why I was crying.” I peer at him, worried now by the morose look in his eyes. “Did your fight happen recently, too?”
He frowns hesitantly. “Kind of. I said something I shouldn't have—to a friend. And then... Then we moved away.” He takes a big breath, so big that his little chest puffs out. “I don't know how to fix it.”
“That's hard, honey,” I tell him, and before I can second-guess it, I reach out and smooth a tuft of hair behind his ear. Rex takes a quick step forward, and then he's gripping me tightly around the waist with his grubby arms.
“It's okay, honey,” I murmur as I hug him back, albeit a little more gently. Wow, the kid has a strong grip. But I notice that peripherally, because mostly I'm concentrating on the fact that my heart feels as if it might explode over how intense and sincere this child is. I pat his hair and put it to rights as much as I can—it's tangled beyond finger combing. And then he lets go, wiping his nose on his forearm. There are unshed tears in his eyes, but he blinks them away quickly.
“I'm sorry about you and your friend,” he ventures cautiously, his voice subdued. “Do you think you can fix it?”
I stare down at him, my lips pursed.
If you'd asked me that question a few days ago, I would have laughed. Of course any quarrel between Pam and me could be fixed.
But this is brand-new territory.
I spread my hands and shake my head. “I hope so, Rex,” I finally say.
Chapter 9: The Roses
Since Grim gave me no dinner request, and I find a hidden stash of spices and ingredients in a pantry, I make pizza.
Beauty and the Wolf Page 9