"You're silly."
The echo of my voice cuts through the weird silence like a knife, even though it was a whisper. Yes, I am silly. I’m still the same person I was just a few days ago. I’m being melodramatic to think otherwise.
I roam over to the kitchen and immediately notice that it has been stocked with food. There was nothing but whiskey and coffee here this morning before Jared and I left for his office, but now there’s a bowl of fresh fruit, filled to the brim in the middle of the kitchen island. I gasp in awe when I open the giant fridge and find it filled with vegetables, meat, eggs, and cheese. Someone has also stocked the cabinets with spices, rice, and pasta.
I furrow my eyebrows. Does this mean that he expects me to cook for him after all?
I head over to the entryway where I left my handbag with my new phone. Jared gave it to me the day I signed the contract, and so far, he's the only person I've communicated with.
"Do you expect me to cook for you?" I type the text angrily, sending it before I can change my mind.
His reply follows within less than a minute.
"No, but I expect you to eat."
I roll my eyes, and luckily he can't see it this time. Why does he agitate me so much? I feel on edge and don't know what to do with myself. My stomach is growling, and though the obvious choice would be to take advantage of all those options in the kitchen, I can't eat when I'm so unraveled and flustered. I am tense and full of questions, and numerous thoughts and contemplations about my current situation roll through my head. I may be hungry, starving even, but my appetite is hidden somewhere behind the turmoil churning inside me.
I take a deep breath and walk up to the giant window in the living room, taking in the view of the city while I try to sort my thoughts. But it doesn't work this way – it never has. I've never been a person who can just sit and think. I always need an outlet, to be able to visualize what's going on inside my head.
I need to write.
I haven't written a word since I signed the contract, and now that I think about it, I’m not sure why. Writing has always been more than just a job for me. It has been an outlet for anything occupying my thoughts, good or bad. It's no surprise I’m in such an emotional turmoil; I need to let it out on paper.
A smile spreads across my face. I’m going to write. He never said I couldn't, he just said I couldn’t share it or publish it. And I've never had a better place and opportunity to write than I do right now, in a beautiful and empty penthouse, with an amazing view to spark the creative flow.
Chapter Seventeen
Jared
The first thing I notice is the smell. I scrunch my nose as the elevator approaches the top floor. It smells like something is burning, but the smell is so faint that I can't say for sure. I begin to worry when I notice the smell getting stronger - and lose my shit when the doors open and I'm welcomed by a thick cloud of smoke obscuring most of my living room and the entrance area. The scene is accompanied by the shrieking sound of my fire alarm.
"Button!"
I dart into the apartment, covering my mouth as the thick, hot smoke burns my lungs. I hear the sounds of her coughing coming from the kitchen, which seems to be the source of the blinding clouds. I can barely detect her through all the smoke, but I see her holding a fire extinguisher, helplessly fiddling with it as she tries to get it to work.
"How does this fucking thing wo-"
She's consumed then by a terrible coughing fit, and I rush to her side, grabbing the fire extinguisher from her hands and removing the cap. It's now that I finally recognize the source of the fire. It looks like my entire stove is encased in flames, even though they appear to be surprisingly small considering the amount of smoke. I push Button to the side, stepping in front of her before I release the foam jet.
She yelps, hopefully in surprise and not pain, as I aim at the smoldering flames. The extinguisher is so powerful that it stops the fire within just a few seconds, and as soon as I can be sure there are no more flames, I toss the extinguisher aside and grab her, dragging her out of the kitchen and toward the living room window. The giant panoramic windows don’t open, but there's a row of smaller windows right above them that can be opened with the flip of a switch. The fire alarm is still shrieking when the windows open far above us, letting in currents of fresh air. I can feel the effect immediately, as breathing becomes so much easier within seconds.
Button is coughing next to me, holding nimbly to my suit jacket. I turn around to her, holding her by the shoulders so she faces me.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?!"
She looks up at me, covering her mouth as another coughing fit overcomes her.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine, I-"
"Are you sure?"
Her eyebrows furrow. "Yes, damn it. I’m fine."
"What the hell were you doing in there?!" I yell at her. "You could have gotten yourself killed!"
"I was trying to cook for you!" she snaps back.
"Cook what? An open fire barbeque?"
She glares at me. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I destroyed your kitchen. I didn't mean to!"
"Fuck the kitchen! Why would I worry about that?!"
Her face changes into a mixture of outrage and confusion. "Isn't that why you're so mad at me? Because I fucked up your kitchen..."
I'm startled by her assumption, but not as much as I am by the realization that she's completely wrong. I didn't think about my damn kitchen for one second. I only thought about her. The thought that she could be hurt just tore my insides apart, and when I saw her standing there, completely lost and helpless with that damn extinguisher...
"No, I'm not mad at you," I say softly. "I was just..."
"Worried?" she asks. "About me?"
A cheeky grin widens on her pretty face, and in that same moment, the fire alarm quiets. The place is still congested with smoke, but opening the windows has helped to freshen the air enough so that we’re able to see, even though the smell is still unbearable.
Button sighs with relief. "God, that sound was annoying."
I huff. "It might save both of our lives, if you ever try to cook again. How did this happen?"
She sighs again, casting me a look that I've never seen on her face before. It reminds me of a little kid who's grumpy that she got caught doing something naughty.
"I... I might have forgotten that I had things on the stove and...," she bites her lower lip, visibly embarrassed. "And I think there was some plastic bags or wrapping lying right next to the pan. Things got too hot and kinda’... caught fire?"
"Kinda’ caught fire?" I repeat. "Where were you? How could you forget about turning the stove on?"
"I...," she utters, turning around and pointing toward the seating area in the back of the room. One of the armchairs has been moved closer to the window and there's a blanket lying on top of it, along with her laptop. "I was writing."
"You were writing? Right there? How could you not have noticed?!"
I didn't mean to raise my voice at her again, but she leaves me no other choice.
How could she have been so careless? And what kind of excuse is this?