I gave up on sleep at midnight. The bed was too big and the ceiling was too high.
So I went looking for a kitchen. Bakers always find the kitchen.
I found it. Marble counters, an oven I could cry over, and almost nothing to cook in.
Then a light clicked on behind me.
Barrett: You're supposed to be asleep.
Lacey: So are you. Where's your food?
Barrett: The chef brings it at seven.
Lacey: Of course he does. Cereal, though? Crackers? A sad little box of something?
He looked at his own kitchen like it was a stranger's house.
He took out bread and butter and a blunt little knife.
Barrett: Sit. I can do this much.
The bread was still warm. There was no reason for bread to be warm at midnight.
Lacey: Who bakes your bread?
Barrett: A bakery on Ninth. I don't know the name.
Lacey: You spend a thousand dollars on a suit and don't know your own bakery's name?
Barrett: You're judging me. In my own kitchen.
Lacey: Someone has to.
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. The cousin of one.
Then I saw jars drying by the sink. The chef's, washed and left upside down.
Lacey: My grandmother used to do this thing.
Barrett: What thing?
Lacey: She made cake in jars. Little ones. She'd sell them at the church door on Sundays.
Lacey: She said cake in a jar travels better than cake on a plate. It survives.
Barrett: Survives what?
Lacey: Bad days. Bad men. Long trips home.
He stopped buttering. The knife just stayed there in his hand.
Lacey: She left me the recipes. Every one in her handwriting.
Lacey: I'm not giving those up. Not for a contract, not for anyone.
I said it too loud. My voice bounced off all that marble.
Barrett: I never asked you to.
Lacey: You asked for a wife you could manage.
Barrett: I asked for a wife. I didn't say a quiet one.
Barrett: But here's the thing. The trust doesn't care about your jars.
Barrett: It cares that I marry before the board meeting. That's the whole deal.
Lacey: So this is a deadline. I'm a deadline.
Barrett: You're a signature.
It came out flat and mean, and I felt it land.
Lacey: Wow. And I thought Gavin was the sweet one.
Barrett: That was a bad thing to say.
Lacey: Yeah. It was.
Barrett: My father's trust pays for this tower. My aunt votes the shares in June.
Barrett: If I'm not married by then, she takes my seat. I lose the company.
Lacey: So I'm your helmet.
Barrett: You're my gamble.
He said it quiet. Like a confession he did not plan to make.
Lacey: Why me? You could have any polished wife in this city.
Barrett: Polished wives want things I can't give.
Lacey: What can't you give?
Barrett: The truth. Most days I don't have it.
He set the toast in front of me and stepped back. Two steps. Always two steps.
Barrett: Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow I introduce you to a room full of people who will hate you.
Lacey: Goodie.
He almost laughed. It never came out.
So I ate warm bread in a cold kitchen with a man who kept his hands to himself.
I told myself that was safety. It could have been a leash painted gold.
Either way, I was starting to trust it. And that was the dangerous part.