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Again, I want to argue, because a woman who accepted a job as a personal chef, living alone in the middle of nowhere with a strange man, can’t actually be trusted to make sound decisions about her personal safety.
True, she probably knows more about how to treat burns than I do.
Reluctantly, I get out a clean towel, soak it with the cold water from the tap and bring it over to her. And instantly realize that unless I’m going to stand here holding her foot like a creeper, I won’t be able to hold the towel in place.
So I pick her up and carry her around the island and set her down on a stool. I angle the other and prop up her foot before carefully draping the damp towel over it. Then I return with a dry towel to prop her foot up on.
She gives a huff of laughter. “Are you done?”
I look from her foot to her. “How does it feel?”
“It feels like you’re being ridiculous.”
“Why aren’t you wearing shoes? Do you always cook barefoot? Because that can’t be safe.”
She bumps up her chin defiantly. “I can’t just sit here. I need to check on the potatoes.” She points across the kitchen. “They’re going to boil over.”
I look from her to the range, where it does, indeed, look like the potatoes are … bubbly.
“Tell me what you need me to do.” I point to her foot. “You, stay off your foot.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but when I threaten to call 911 again, she talks me through checking them to see if they’re done, draining them, and adding butter and some cream.
I stare into the pot. “How do I mash them?”
“You don’t. I will. My ten minutes with a cool cloth is almost up.”
Again, I want to argue with her. Even if this burn isn’t serious, there are a dozen other hot things in the kitchen. And sharp things.
“Cooking barefoot can’t be safe,” I grumble.
She shrugs. “I certainly wouldn’t do it in a restaurant kitchen.”
“Then why do you cook barefoot here?” Come to think of it, I’ve never seen her in shoes.
She looks pointedly at my own bare feet.
“What?” I blurt, not seeing the connection.
“You don’t wear shoes in the house.”
“So?”
“The first time I came here, I noticed you have a shelf for shoes by the front door. You don’t wear shoes inside, so it’s only polite that I don’t wear them either.”
I can feel my scowl deepening. That this is my fault, that she got hurt because of me, because she was trying to accommodate my idiosyncrasies, is enraging.
“You can wear shoes in the house,” I tell her.
She smirks. “But you don’t wear shoes in the house.”
I don’t.
And, no, I’m not a germaphobe. But I grew up around cattle and I’ve never gotten past how disgusting cow shit is on the bottom of your boots. Besides, if I wear shoes too long, my feet feel claustrophobic. Which is certainly not something I’m going to tell Savannah, since Ava laughed when I tried to explain it to her.
I wore shoes every day when I owned Cookie Jar.
If I don’t have to wear them now that I’m working from home, I’m not going to.
