Then he let me go. As if he expected me to walk around on two feet after that.
I managed.
Barely.
And I was uber aware of four sets of male eyes on me as I walked around the kitchen island toward the fridge. They might’ve spoken, to each other or to me, but I couldn’t hear anything beyond the low ringing in my ears and…
“Appreciate you, baby.”
Not once, not once in eighteen years of marriage had Preston told me he appreciated me. Nor had he thanked me for keeping the house clean, for hosting his business dinners, for surviving the terrible wives, for serving him all of his food and cleaning every single one of his dishes.
For hiding my bruises under makeup and lying about the wince that my mother-in-law caught while I was reaching for a salad plate.
Not once.
But Swiss said it. Easily. After two nights together. Like it was natural. Like it was as easy as breathing.
Luckily, I was distracted enough by opening the fridge and marveling at all of the ingredients in it, giving me something to focus on.
Swiss hadn’t been kidding. They were fully stocked up. With fresh, organic ingredients.
Grass fed butter, fresh herbs, every kind of meat imaginable. Fricking oat milk.
It was a total dream.
I stood in front of the fridge for a good five minutes, cataloguing everything and figuring out what would be the tastiest and quickest.
Once I decided on penne alla vodka, I closed the fridge with my arms full of the classic ingredients and some things I added to make it ‘mine.’
Warmth appeared at my hip. Warmth attached to a tall, muscled, impossibly sexy man. Then the clink of a glass sounded on the stone kitchen counter.
“Figured you for a red wine drinker, Countess,” he said, kissing the side of my neck before walking back to the man huddle at the kitchen island.
He didn’t wait for me to thank him, to shower him with praise for performing the simple, thoughtful act.
My hand was shaking as I took the wine glass and took a long and grateful sip. Then I focused on chopping, thankful I could use the onions as an excuse for the moisture in my eyes.
“Holy fuck!” Cody exclaimed.
Or more like shouted.
“I have never eaten anything this good in my fucking life,” he continued around a mouthful of pasta.
“If I had a child, I would sell that child for one more bite of this,” Lucas added, running bread along his plate to catch the last traces of sauce.
“You can stay,” was all Elden said, which I’m pretty sure was his stamp of approval.
My own plate was clean because I had not realized just how starving I was. When it came time to serve everything up, Swiss had helped me put everyone’s plates on the dining table—with cloth napkins and everything, cloth napkins… What universe had I entered into? —and he’d looked at the portions I’d served up. Obviously the men had gotten large portions because they were, well, large.
My own was modestly small. Tiny, really. I’d done that out of instinct, ignoring my gnawing hunger that had only grown more intense as the fragrance wafted up from the plates.
For years, I’d honed what portion to give myself based on Preston’s expectations, based on what would maintain my weight. Overeating and gluttony were unattractive to Preston.
Swiss hadn’t said a word as he switched our plates. His was the largest. I’d opened my mouth to argue.
“Don’t say a fuckin’ word, Countess,” he grumbled, picking up his fork. “Eat.”
Because I was so shocked, and because muscle memory set in, I did as he commanded.