One Weekend with the Billionaire Chapter 66

*Julia*

Around 4:00, it occurs to me that I need to start fixing dinner. I have been in the pool. Floating around without a care has been helpful to my worried disposition, but as I get out, water dripping from my suit, and grab a towel to dry off, I think it is time to get dinner ready.

I sit down on a chair next to the pool as I realize I don’t have to worry about dinner. I won’t have to cook anything this evening. If I don’t want to, I’ll never have to cook anything again.

Before I got married to Jeff, I was not much of a cook. My mother tried to teach me what she knew when I was in high school, but she was not a natural cook either, and I didn’t exactly take to it. I remember the first meatloaf I ever made. It was charred on top and raw in the middle and absolutely disgusting.

Over the last two years, I have had to figure out how to make some of Jeff’s favorite dishes to his liking. Either that, or I would spend the night being yelled at, and that was never any fun. Jeff is a rather bland person who likes his food the same way as his personality. We had the same food over and over again for the most part. Which was good for me. Pork chops, meatloaf, roast, chicken breast, always with a side of potatoes and another vegetable. Sometimes we had rolls or biscuits if it was a meal where it was expected by Jeff. I would miss none of that mundane life.

I do slightly miss the pride I took in being the one to set a nice meal in front of my husband, though. Not that Braxton is my husband. But I am the woman of the house now, aren’t I? Shouldn’t I be responsible for setting a well-cooked meal on the table for my man?

I get up, wrap a towel around myself, and go into the house, deciding to go take a quick shower and get dressed before I wander to the kitchen to check with the chefs. I can smell something cooking as soon as I walk into the house, so I know something is already being prepared.

After a quick shower, I put on a nice outfit, one of the ones that Braxton has paid for. A white blouse and black slacks with a nice set of heels and some earrings look dressy enough that he will know I wanted to look nice for him without looking like I was trying too hard. I fix my makeup and put my hair in a French braid before I go down to the kitchen.

Whatever they are cooking, it smells divine, much better than anything I would’ve been able to prepare. The head chef, whose name escapes me at the moment, smiles at me. “Ms. Thompson! You don’t have to be in here,” she says with a smile.

“I know,” I say. “I just wanted to see if there was anything I can do to help with dinner.”

She gives me a smile like a mother might give a child who has stepped out of line slightly but no harm is done. “Thank you for asking, Ms. Thompson, but we have everything handled.”

I can tell that that’s the case. It smells like they are making ham, but whatever the meat is, it’s already in the oven. They are chopping vegetables, likely preparing side dishes. I take a deep whiff of everything they are making and then leave them to do their job.

I have no idea what to do with myself. It will likely be at least another hour before Braxton arrives. That is, if he is able to leave on time. I assume there are times when he is not, when he will have business that keeps him late. I hope today is not one of those days. I think he would let me know if he was going to be late. I pull my phone from my pocket and check for messages from him. There are none. I wish he would’ve called me at some point during the day, but I know how busy he is.

I hover around the window in the foyer. It’s a large picture window that looks out on beautiful flowered bushes in the front of the house. It sort of reminds me of the large window in the living room of our apartment. I think, a long time ago, that window might’ve been a door that led to a balcony because it is so big and reaches to the floor. The glass in it is thin and old, wavy like it has stories to tell. This window is double-paned to keep the weather out. The view here is nothing like that view out the window in our apartment which shows us only a busy street and another building. I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want a balcony that led to that, except for at least it would be a way to get outside. It can get lonely, staying inside all day with no fresh air or sunshine. Not that there’s much fresh air in the city, and the taller buildings block much of the light from the sun.

Here, I have been able to spend the day outside. I have painted and floated and done nothing like work. It is odd. If I am to stay here, I will have to find something constructive to do to spend my time. I am used to having to take care of a man. I won’t have to do that here, but I’ll need something to do to occupy my time. I can’t paint and float all day for the rest of my life, though I suppose I could make a job of painting if I want to. I assume Braxton can help me make connections in the art world.

I place my hand against the cold glass and look at the azure sky, longing for him to arrive home. I want to know how his day was. I think about the phone call from my mother. I hope Braxton will tell me what is going on with Jeff’s lawyers. I want to know.

With a sigh, I find a seat and wait, my phone in my hand but no idea what’s on the screen. Braxton will be home soon, and then, I’ll have a purpose again.