Page 38 of Mafia And Maid
His stare at me is ruthless. Calculating. He’s waiting for an explanation. I know he’s not the kind of man who tolerates incompetence.
I have to keep this job. Oh God, what will I do once he fires me?
"I... I’m sorry," I finally manage in a voice barely above a whisper.
I hate how small and shaky I sound. I'm trying to inhale through my nose to steady my racing pulse. My hands are trembling. I clasp them together in front of me in a futile attempt to hide the state I'm in.
He’s still glaring at me with those piercing dark eyes. But I can’t quite work out what he’s thinking as he stares. His expression is unreadable. And that only makes things worse.
I wish he would say something, anything, to break the tension. But he doesn’t.
He’s waiting for me to continue. And I know I have to explain myself.
"I’m just not used to...this kitchen." I gesture vaguely around the room.
“Bullshit,” he snaps.
I’m taking shallow breaths. But my lungs can’t get enough oxygen.
He takes a deliberate step toward me.
My heart is thudding louder and louder as he gets closer.
He’s going to tell me to pack up my things and leave.
“You make these.” His fingers jab at the cupcakes I’ve made on the cake stand. “Which means that you are used to our kitchen.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. How do I explain that I know that I’m useless? How do I tell him that he doesn’t need to say anything more because I get the message?
“If you can bake cupcakes, muffins, and all that other sweet stuff, you clearly know how to use kitchen appliances, read a recipe, and tell the time. So, why the fuck can’t you make a single meal that isn’t burned, undercooked, or soggy?”
“I…uh…I…uh…”
My thoughts are in freefall, and I don’t know what to say. How to explain. But I know I have to try if I’ve got any hope of keeping this job.
I swallow down the lump lodged in my throat. "It’s not that I can’t cook, sir. I can, really. I just...get nervous."
“Why?” he demands.
I close my eyes for a second. “When I’ve cooked in the past, no one…else ate the sweet things.” What I really mean is that Grayden never ate the cakes I made because he hated desserts. “I was baking the sweet treats for myself.” And for Ethan, who loved my cakes—but I can’t mention my son. “I got confident at baking because I had plenty of practice and no one to judge me.” Because I didn’t have Grayden criticizing every single aspect of it. “But I never gained confidence at cooking dinners and meals—I always knew other people would eat them and judge my cooking skills.” Because Grayden made sure to knock me down every chance he got.
Marco continues staring at me. “What makes you relax when you’re in the kitchen?”
“Relax?”
“Yes,” he grits out with impatience. “Relax.”
“I, um, like music. And dancing to it.” I can’t believe I’m admitting this to anyone, let alone to the fierce man who employs me.
“Dance then.”
“What?”
“I said dance. Listen to music, dance, and pretend you’re the only one who’s going to eat the dinner you’re cooking.”
“But I can’t do that—”
“Yes, you can. And I’m going to stay here and make sure you cook our dinner properly for once.”