Rose & Thorne

Chapter 05

I awake to coldness both figuratively and literally. The cover have been pulled completely away and left on the floor by Mr. Thorne who is standing at the foot of the bed with that familiar scowl, all rage and annoyance, marring his face. Realizing I am wearing very little, I pull my legs up under me and stretch the oversized shirt - his shirt to be exact- over them. He doesn't seem to notice my discomfort.

"Do you know what time it is?"

I look at the clock. It is round with two bells that ideally should have woken me two hours ago. "I'm sorry-"

"If you're not going to do your jo-"

"I am, I am, I just stayed up all night doing laundry, an-and I overslept."

"This is what you have an alarm for." Under his glare I feel like a five year old who's tracked mud in the house and on the good carpet. Which I actually kind of did yesterday...

"I didn't know how to work it-"

"And let me guess. You also don't have clothes of your own?"

I lower my gaze out of embarrassment.

"Is that my shirt?"

"I only meant to wear it until my dress was finished drying." It's true. I must have fallen asleep before the drying cycle was complete.

"Pathetic," he spits before storming over to the closet and pulling out a robe which he then balls up and throws at my face. "Make my breakfast," he orders as he stomps off. I flinch as he slams the door on his way out.

Making breakfast would be much easier in a clean kitchen. Short on time, however, and not wanting to get fired during my first twenty-four hours here, I merely make a pile of dirty dishes and use a skillet to prepare an omelette. Luckily there is enough salvageable food in the fridge for that as well as some orange juice that expires today. 

I am starving of course, but I don't dare prepare myself anything in the presence of Thorne, nor do I invite myself to take a seat at the table as he does, of all things, a crossword puzzle in the newspaper.

"I didn't think people our age still read newspapers," I say in an attempt to get a conversation flowing.

"Perhaps that is why I don't pay you to think." He doesn't look up to see the heat rising to my face from embarrassment.

That is until I say, "You don't pay me at all." There is a dangerous flash in his eyes, like seeing a cat's eyes at night. I thought I'd seen the same thing last night. How peculiar...

"I'm working off my debt," I add quickly. "Do you know how long that will take exactly?" I eye a lone tangerine sitting on the edge of the counter. My mouth waters despite it being over ripe, its skin browning and soggy in some places.

"It will be repaid when I say it is repaid." He is back to focusing on his puzzle, dark, voluminous curls moving with the downward tilt of his head.

I want to push him, but the coldness of his voice is a warning sign I've come to recognize even this soon, and I know that if I truly want answers, I will have to back off for now and try a different approach when he is not in such a cross mood. 

Ignoring me he grabs a remote and turns on a tv that is installed inside of a cabinet. The stock market news is on and he listens as he finishes plugging letters into little white boxes. I clean quietly while he eats, taking a single bite of his omelette every few minutes. When he is done I collect his plate without his having to ask me. I load it into the dishwasher and start the load. I expect him to leave the kitchen so that I may prepare something for myself to eat, but he remains put, reading the newspaper and listen to the stats. Giving up on getting breakfast anytime soon, I ease out of the kitchen, swiping up the tangerine in what I hope is my unnoticed exit.

***

I don't eat anything besides the tangerine until  Mr. Thorne finally vacates the kitchen at 11:00 am. I'm ravenous by then and make an omelette with any remaining ingredients I find in the fridge. I make a mental note to ask him if I should walk to the store or if he will be having something delivered, or if he would be picking groceries up himself, which I doubt will be the case.

After what is brunch for me I dust the surfaces of the two great rooms and perform a light cleaning on three bathrooms that honestly look to be unused. I use the opportunity of stocking the towels in all the linen closets as a way to familiarize myself with the mansion's layout, but I don't resolve to clean anything but the main floor just yet, save for gathering any trash I can find and then locating a place to put it in order for its disposal. It is on the third floor that I hear Thorne and I tiptoe down to what I presume is his room.

His door is slightly ajar, and I just can't help but peer in through the slivered viewpoint. His back is facing the door providing me good view of his shoulders. They are broad and muscular, but truthfully speaking, I already saw that last night when he'd removed his shirt, but I'd been too bashful to openly look as I am doing now. He is hunched over a desk that has a stack of books on it. I don't recognize any of them, and, honestly, books are of little consequence to me. I'd much rather watch tv ... or the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes, apparently...

I must get caught up in looking because I lean forward ever so slightly pushing the door a quarter wider. My breath catches at the same time his head lifts and turns so that it is his ear that is facing in my direction. His nose flares as if he is smelling something in the air. I let the noise of him rising cover my own desperate retreat into the nearest open door. I scurry to hide beside a large wardrobe.

For long moments I can tell Thorne is in the hall, silencing his own breathing to detect even the minutest of sounds. I hold my breath, still there is very little I can do about the pounding in my chest. Please, heart, be still, I urge it. I am about ready to die and fear Thorne will murder me if I'm discovered.

Calm down...

I hear his heavy footsteps going back to his room.

His door slams.

And I draw a breath.