Nothing is Easy

Flour coats my hands, buries itself under my fingernails, and creates a gritty texture where it has somehow gotten into my mouth.

That was the awful thing about baking. Or at least my baking. No matter how hard I tried, the ingredients just wouldn't stay inside the bowl.

It always managed to get on my face, in my hair, and in every crevice of my body imaginable. It was like glitter, I could never seem to get all of it off at once.

"Would you mind being more careful next time you bake?" A voice startles me out of my thoughts, and I look to see a perfectly clean man standing before me.

His hair is a deep black, his eyes the lightest blue. With a jawline for days, and muscles peeking through his suit, it wasn't hard to tell who he was.

Mr. White. A beautiful man with the most generic name on the planet.

Aka, my boss.

"If you don't want a mess, I would advise getting an actual cook." My voice comes out harsh, and I immediately regret speaking back to him.

This man is my boss, someone who could fire me in two seconds if he really wanted to. And I needed this job, much more than he needed me to clean for him.

Clean. Clean didn't mean cook. I was hired to clean.

So why was I in the kitchen?

Because he wants you to be, dumbass.

"Excuse me?"

I wince at the angry sound of his voice and wonder if I can backtrack slightly.

"I didn't mean it like that, sir. I just am not the best at cooking, and this bread is probably going to come out hard as rock anyways... I don't even cook for myself, I am that bad. I usually get away with store-bought ramen and mac and cheese..."

I blush once I realize I have been rambling and shut my mouth, turning back to the bread which is now dripping off the counter.

Bread dough wasn't supposed to drip.

He notices and puts a hand over his eyes, rubbing his forehead slowly. I look at the soggy dough, wondering if it is too late to try and salvage it.

"I thought women were supposed to be good at cooking." He grumbles, looking down at my mess.

"I thought men were supposed to be smart." I retorted, crossing my arms.

"I thought workers were supposed to be more respectful." He snaps. I can tell I hurt his ego, but at this point, I am so mentally drained that I just don't care.

"I thought cleaning maids were supposed to clean."

We stare each other down for a good half a minute, the only sound in the room was the clock's gentle ticking and the drips of the dough against the floor before he suddenly lets out a sound I didn't know angry bosses could make.

He was laughing.

I let out a nervous laugh, more so for not getting fired than actually finding it funny.

Until it does become funny. The dough dripping on the floor, the flour all over everything except for the one thing it should be on, the back and forth argument from me and Mr. White. It wasn't funny.

It was hilarious.

"What's your name?" he says when our laughter dies off. He runs a hand over his eyes and clears his throat.

"Sophie Amara."

"Well, it is nice to meet you, Sophie. Or is nice really the right word for it?"

“I think shocking fits better if I am being completely honest.” 

We look at the mess once more before I suddenly become very self-aware. I am going to have to clean this afterward, seeing as I made the mess. And with the way the dough is oozing in the grout, I know it will take forever.

“I better get going… This is going to take a while to remake and clean.” 

He stares at me for a bit before sighing and shaking his head. I can tell the wheels in his brain are turning.

He is probably wondering if it is still a good idea to let me handle his dinner.

“Just leave it, I’ll get someone else to clean it up.” 

I get a nauseous feeling in my stomach at those words and look up at him. 

“Does this mean you're firing me?” 

What will my mother do without my income? How will we get groceries and the other everyday items that count on my salary to cover? My mother was in and out of rehab, and didn't have a job. She depended on me to keep us afloat, I couldn't let her down because I couldn't control my mouth.

“Not at all. It means you are coming to dinner with me.”

I am so shocked I can barely speak. Dinner. Dinner with Mr. White? I can’t imagine anything more ridiculous than a maid going to dinner with one of the hottest bachelors in, quite possibly, the nation. 

“You want me to go to dinner with you?” 

“Did I not say that before?” 

His face is back to the stern look that he obtained before he walked into the kitchen, and I nod before he gets annoyed with me. 

“No, you did. I just…” I trail off mid sentence, looking back at the mess before looking down at my outfit. 

Which is usually a crisp black, and is now covered in light flour thanks to my cooking fiasco. 

“Well? You what?” 

“I look like a mess. I can’t go to dinner with you like this.”

“Then change.” 

I don’t have the heart to tell him I live much further away than he thinks I do, and I don’t have a car to get me there. Usually, after my shifts, I would walk the four miles to my run-down cottage where my mother was waiting.

I didn’t exactly have the time to do that and get back in time for dinner. 

“I can’t do that either.” 

“Why not?” 

His voice was really starting to annoy me. Or maybe it was the arrogance that he carried, to think that everyone just magically had the money for luxuries like fancy cars and expensive dinners. 

“I live four miles away, and I don’t have a car.” 

I expect him to ask me why I don’t have a car, expect him to tell me just to leave. But instead, he surprises me by saying, “I have a sister who is about your height and looks to be your weight. I could grab some of her clothes for you and we can order takeout.” 

It was thoughtful, unbelievably so. I nod and he exits the kitchen, staying put. My mind is a jumble of thoughts, but one is louder than the rest. 

You just switched from making dinner to getting asked on a dinner date in the span of an hour. 

And I can’t say I was mad about it.