Edith didn’t save me any coffee this morning. Not only that, she poured the excess down the sink while I watched. Oh, were you not finished? She’s upset with me, thinks I’m being too hard on Meredith, but she doesn’t know the whole truth. Meredith isn’t here as some destitute damsel seeking sanctuary; she’s here to stall until her husband begs her to come home, a sheep in sheep’s clothing. Helen confirmed as much when we spoke last night. I called her, surprised Meredith had lasted her whole first day.

“You know she hasn’t even bothered to call home?” Helen said. “I bet Andrew is worried sick.”

“Maybe she really is planning on leaving him.”

“No way. Meredith is anything but independent—spoiled by parents, doted on by boyfriends, and then completely provided for by Andrew. Remember when you were a kid and you’d get mad, run away, then be back home in time for supper? My guess is whatever this little tiff is about will be forgotten by Friday, and she’ll be in your rearview mirror.”

The phone call left a bad taste in my mouth. What kind of petulant woman just up and leaves her husband like that? He’s probably really worried about her while she’s off playing hide-and-seek a few states over. It doesn’t make sense. Then again, Helen hasn’t exactly painted Meredith in the best light, and I trust Helen’s judgment. She’s been a good employee for years while I’ve only known Meredith for 48 hours.

All day yesterday I kept waiting for her to fold, to feed into the impression Helen gave me, but she didn’t. She cleaned the whole day and only took a quick break for lunch—I know this because Edith said she felt bad seeing her eat out on the porch by herself. A few times throughout the day, I heard things crash to the ground followed by a loud curse, but the house was clean, nothing was broken (that I could see), and better yet, she didn’t bother me once.

I think over my conversation with Helen while I make a new pot of coffee. I wonder how well Helen really knows Meredith. If she never once mentioned that she had a sister, they can’t be all that close.

The back door opens and I turn to find the subject of my thoughts scurrying into the adjacent laundry room and yanking the door closed behind her. She presses her back against the door and her hand to her chest. Her eyes are closed. Her breathing is erratic. It looks like she was just running for her life.

“Was Alfred out there?”

Her eyes pop open and her light blue gaze locks with mine as her cheeks turn a rosy shade of red. She clearly thought she was alone.

“I found that if I throw a rock at the barn, I can distract him long enough to sprint from the shack to the house.”

“Whatever works.” I chuckle, turning back to the coffee maker so she can compose herself without me watching. “But the more you try to avoid him, the harder he’s going to try to win you over. He’s smart, and he likes a challenge.”

“Can’t you just train him to avoid me?”

It sounds like she really thinks that’s an option.

I glance back at her out of the corner of my eyes. “I don’t really keep an org chart with all my employees’ ranks, but it’s safe to say that Alfred is your superior. Besides, I doubt you’ll be here long enough to bother.”

Her brows furrow and her gaze drops to the floor. If Edith were watching, she’d jab me in the ribs with her elbow.

I sigh. “Are you actually scared of him? He’s a giant teddy bear.”

“No. Of course not,” she says haughtily, pushing off the door and lifting her chin as she steps into the kitchen. “I just…don’t reciprocate his enthusiasm.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

Her pride will be her downfall. If she’d just admit she was scared, I’d make an effort to keep Alfred away from her. Since she swears she’s not, I won’t bother.

I flip the switch on the coffee machine and it starts percolating right away. The smell is better than sex.

“When the coffee’s done, bring a mug up to my office, will you?”

She quirks a brow. “Is that part of my job description? Waiting on you hand and foot?”

“It’s a cup of coffee, not a seven-course meal.”

“Okay…” She hesitates, her gaze turning toward the coffee pot like it’s her salvation. “Am I allowed to get some for myself?”

The question, delivered in a gentle tone, catches me so off guard that I turn to look at her, really look at her. Obviously, I’m aware she’s beautiful—that’s the minimum working requirement for trophy wives—but even with her dark hair twisted up in a bun and a fresh face, she’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. I ignore the thought and focus on the fact that today she’s wearing another one of my Blue Stone t-shirts. It’s tied just like the one yesterday so it doesn’t completely drown her. She’s wearing her same pair of jeans, but they’re stained now, and there’s a hole just above the left knee. I don’t think she’d be wearing them again if she had any other clothes. The thought is unsettling.

“Stop sizing me up like that,” she accuses suddenly.

My gaze jerks up to her face. “Are you kidding me? I wasn’t sizing you up.”

She props her hands on her hips. “Oh yeah? What were you doing then?”

Her ice blue eyes dare me to tell the truth.

“I was feeling sorry for you.”

I should’ve known my reply wouldn’t go over well. Her hands ball into tiny little fists. Her lips tug into a thin, angry line.

“Why? I don’t want the coffee that badly.”

I wave my hand, gesturing to her appearance. “No, because you’re obviously a very unstable person.”

“What?”

“You pack up and leave your life behind, and you don’t even bring a change of clothes. You’re either crazy, or you didn’t think you’d be gone this long,” I point out with a flat, disinterested tone.

“Oh, braaaavo, Dr. Phil,” she shoots back, temper flaring. “Excellent psychoanalysis. Don’t you have your own business to mind? Like, literally?”

Jesus Christ. This woman is going to be the death of me.

I tug a hand through my hair and make a move to step around her. “Just bring the coffee when it’s done.”

“Fine,” she snaps.

“And go to the grocery store. We’re out of damn food.”

I stomp up the stairs.

“Sure thing, boss!” she shouts after me.

“And cook something for lunch!”

“With pleasure!”

“I’ll know if you spit in it!”

At that, I slam my office door closed.

I’m fuming and pissed, more so with myself than with her. I had every intention of keeping my cool, but she pushed me, just like she has since she first arrived. I’ve never in my life talked to a woman the way I talk to her. I should march right back downstairs and fire her on the spot.

I stay seated, seething.

A few minutes later, there’s a soft knock and then Meredith opens my office door. My blood spikes with adrenaline as if we’re about to pick up right where we left off. My hands grip the edges of my desk. Her gaze hits mine, and I’m surprised to see that it’s softer than it was down in the kitchen. Her lips are trained into a small, absent smile.

In her hand is a steaming cup of coffee—the coffee I’d completely forgotten about.

I watch her as she carries it carefully toward my desk, where I’m currently on the phone with the general manager over at Blue Stone Farm. He’s talking my ear off about a few improvements he wants to make at the restaurant. I motion for Meredith to set the coffee down by the phone, and she listens. Then she reaches over and gently sticks a note onto my computer monitor.

In girly, scrolling script she wrote: I didn’t mean to snap at you. You’re right, I am a little crazy.

That’s it. No apology, just a joke.

Still, it’s something. Without waiting for a reply, she turns, and I watch her saunter out of the room, dragging my gaze from the strands of dark hair that have fallen from her bun to the curve of her ass in the only pair of jeans she owns. My stomach tightens and my heart pounds. A heat creeps up my neck.

When she’s gone, I stare at her note, trying to refocus my attention on the phone call. In reality, I’m only half listening, too damn focused on the princess.