Page 20 of The Muse
He raises an eyebrow at me.
“I can’t take it back without a tag.”
“You’re wearing it. Why would you take it back?”
“To pay rent if this job doesn’t pan out.”
He slips the tag into his pocket. “I thought we discussed this. If this job doesn’tpan out,you won’t be renting anything.”
“I’m keeping your wifeinspired.” I offer a toothy grin as if he’ll pat me on the back for knowing what “muse” means. “So I don’t think you’ll be sending me to jail.” I roll the waist of the jeans to remove the safety pin and string that remains from the tag. The safety pin is bent open, ready to jab me in the side. Maybe I should let it. Then I can sue him.
Rupert grunts and turns, heading up the stairs. “So far, she’s not impressed. Do better. Start with coffee. She likes it in the form of herbal tea with a slice of lemon and a few drips of honey.”
Coffee. Herbal tea. Lemon. Honey. Got it.
I rummage through the kitchen. Thankfully, there’s already a pot of hot coffee. I pour it into a mug and deposit a bag of organic herbal tea into it. Then I cut a lemon and squeeze half into the coffee with some honey. I’m not sure how many “drips” because honey runs more than it drips. Feeling confident and successful with my first task of the day, I carry the coffee to Callie’s bedroom and knock on the door.
When she doesn’t answer, I ease open the door and poke my head inside. She’s on the floor by the window, legs crisscrossed, hands on her knees.
“I have your coffee.”
She opens one eye.
“Well, it’s tea, too.”
She squints that one eye.
“Herbal tea. Honey and lemon.” I grin triumphantly.
When she crooks her finger at me, I step in front of her.
“Where’s the belt?” she asks.
My grin fades. “The belt?”
She nods.
“Oh.” I glance down at my jeans, minus the belt. “I was in a rush this morning. It wasn’t in the bag I took into the bathroom. I’ll wear it tomorrow.” I set the mug on the table beside her throne-looking chair.
Callie points to the coaster, so I move it onto the pink and white marble coaster. She stands with ease, not like an old lady lumbering to stand, instead, graceful in everything she does. Bending forward with her arms crossed, she inspects the drink before wrinkling her nose.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s black.”
“That’s the coffee,” I say.
“I don’t like coffee.”
“Mr. Rawlings said you like your coffee as herbal tea with lemon and honey.”
She looks at me, and after a few seconds, the corner of her mouth bends into a tiny grin. “You steeped my tea in coffee?”
“Well,”—my gaze ping-pongs between her and the mug—“yeah.”
Her shoulders bounce with a little chuckle. “What he meant is I don’t drink coffee. He calls everything coffee. I like tea instead, nottoo.” Her eyes narrow as she picks up the mug and reads the tea tag.
“It was the first box I found that said ‘herbal.’”
