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“Just because I don’t wear shoes in the house, that doesn’t mean I want you cooking barefoot.”
She holds up her hands like she’s warding off my argument. “Hey, if me being barefoot in the kitchen bothers you, I can buy a pair of house shoes to wear in the kitchen.”
“You doing something unsafe bothers me.”
“This isn’t a restaurant kitchen. There aren’t fryers full of hot oil or people carrying knives around. Cooking barefoot in a home kitchen is pretty safe. Lots of people do it all the time.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “It’s not safe enough. I’ll buy you a pair of shoes for the house. Just let me know what kind.”
“I can buy my own shoes.”
Great. The last thing she needs is to spend money she can’t afford to waste buying shoes she wouldn’t need if it weren’t for my damn weird issues.
“You didn’t buy pots and pans or knives when you started working here, did you?”
She looks like she’s fighting a smile. “Actually, I did bring some of my own knives.”
I pick up the vegetable peeler. “What about this? Or the colander? Or the range for that matter?”
She loses the fight with the smile.
Her grin just about guts me.
“I think you would have noticed if I’d hauled in my own six burner range.”
“I’m your employer. It my job to make sure you have the supplies you need to do your job. If that means shoes, then I can damn sure buy you shoes.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Pick out something and text me a link.”
Twenty minutes later, a few bites into the most tender chicken I’ve ever eaten, an alert comes on my phone. It’s a link to a pair of slip-on clogs with a note about her shoe size.
I look up at the woman sitting opposite me at the kitchen table. She smirks and gives a jaunty nod of her head.
She says nothing, but goes back to watching whatever is playing on her phone.
I click on the link which takes me to an online vender specializing in uniforms for chefs. The pair she picked out is ugly as fuck, on sale, and clearly the cheapest thing she could find. Obviously, I shouldn’t have told her I’m not a billionaire.
When I was dating Ava, she’d coax me into going shopping with her. As if I didn’t already know she was dating me for my money. I didn’t give a fuck about Ava’s feet, but spent a fortune on shoes for her.
Yet Savannah somehow thinks the best I can afford is a thirty-dollar pair of acid green crocs.
Later that night, I order her three pairs of shoes. One that’s the pair she picked out and two more in similar styles, from top of the line brands.
I try not to worry about what will happen in the kitchen between now and when the shoes will arrive.
Just like I try not to worry about why I care this much about the safety of her feet.
Texts between Savannah and Trinity
tenth week
Help!!!!
Trin???
I need advice!!!!
