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“Your mother’s influence I’m presuming.”
“You presume correctly, Alfred.”
He fights the inkling to smirk.
“Where do you want me to park my car?”
“I’ll move your vehicle, Bryn,” Clark informs warmly. “You simply get inside. Perhaps unwind? A long shift followed by a long drive can take its toll on a person.”
“It can and does, but I can still park my own car, dude. It’s not a big deal.”
“I understand you are a very independent individual, Bryn. Most people swept into a situation such as yours would take full advantage of the amenities provided by the estate; however, you are determined to maintain the majority of your self-sufficiency. It’s remarkable. Rather admirable.”
“Thanks.”
“However,” he continues, tone growing a bit of an edge, “every time you deny one of us our ability to do our job, you take away the entire reason we’re here, which is to serve. Most of us are not here because we have nothing better to do, but because we have found our calling, our joy, our path in life by serving households such as the Wilcoxes. Some of us have even found ourselves the family we didn’t think we would ever have.”
His words melt my tense shoulders.
Is this why my mother has done this for so long?
Is this how she feels?
Is this why she’s stayed much longer than she really needed to?
Is this why she entrusts Wes the way she does?
Is being a part of the Wilcox family more than just a job to her?
Is this what J.T. was trying to say?
What everyone has been trying to say?
“Please, bear those things in mind going forward.” Clark extends his open palm in my direction. “Keys, Miss Winters.”
A cordial smile is attached to the object being surrendered. “Bryn.”
“Refreshments are in your room,” he casually discloses during his walk towards my vehicle. “Wes insisted Lucky put together a small snack variety to aid you between meals.”
Girlish giggles threaten to escape me yet rather than let them, I spin my frame around to the man still lurking in his vehicle. “Walk me to my room.”
I don’t wait for him to argue and my lack of waiting spurs him into swiftly pursuing like I knew it would.
Our first few strides are done in uneven breaths.
His are labored.
Tense.
Mine are pensive.
Dreamy.
Unexpectedly, he’s first to speak, “Why didn’t you call me for help?”
The question doesn’t deter my steps. “Would you have actually come?”
“I came.”
