Chapter 2
"That's not all." I quickly added, "From now on, whatever I say goes, and you have to obey without question."
I'd make sure he found out exactly what it felt like to live under someone else's roof.
Franklin folded the paper with care and slipped it into his shirt pocket, right above his heart.
"Alright, you're the boss," Franklin said.
He agreed so fast, it felt like trying to punch a marshmallow.
"You..." I began, but he was already moving.
"Yes, boss lady," Franklin said with a playful wink, then scooped up his pillow and marched off to the couch like a good boy.
Watching him curl up on that obviously-too-short couch, his long arms and legs all cramped up and looking kind of put out, my victory suddenly didn't feel so sweet anymore.
I'd let him off the hook this time. At least he knew when to play along.
I gave a little snort, spun around, and headed back to my room, locking the door behind me.
Lying in my king-sized bed, I tossed and turned, unable to get Franklin's face out of my head.
I wondered what the smile meant.
And why did "Yes, boss lady" roll off his tongue so easily?
He didn't seem forced at all, almost like he was actually having fun with it.
I refused to believe it.
Franklin was my lifelong rival. There was no way he'd ever just roll over and let me win. Not a chance he'd swallow his pride like that.
I assumed he was totally putting on an act.
He was just swallowing his pride for now, waiting for the perfect moment to hit me where it hurt.
I shot up in bed, startled.
I berated myself, telling myself to stay sharp and not get careless.
I quietly cracked the door open and peeked out into the living room.
Moonlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the room in a silvery glow.
Franklin was lying on his side on the couch, breathing evenly, and seemed to be fast asleep.
He was only covered by a thin blanket, his long legs awkwardly tucked in, looking a bit miserable.
I frowned.
It was going to get colder tonight.
If he slept like that, he'd definitely catch a cold by morning.
If he got sick, who was going to cook for me? Who was going to clean up?
That was it. I was just feeling bad for my free help.
I grabbed a blanket from my room, tiptoed out, and gently tucked it around Franklin as he slept.
Just as I was straightening up, a big hand suddenly grabbed my wrist.
I jumped, startled, and locked eyes with him; his gaze was practically glowing in the dark.
"You... you weren't asleep?" I stammered.
Franklin didn't say anything. He just held my wrist; his grip was gentle, but I couldn't break free.
With his other hand, he pulled the blanket up, and his nose grazed the back of my hand.
"Thanks," Franklin murmured.
His voice, still husky from sleep, sent a shiver through me, like a feather brushing my heart.
My cheeks burned as I yanked my hand away.
"Who... who cares about you? I just don't want you getting sick and leaving me without my free help," I stammered.
With that, I bolted back to my room, my heart pounding like crazy.
It was humiliating. He totally busted me.
From outside the door, I caught a barely audible chuckle.
I buried my face in my pillow, feeling like my cheeks were about to burst into flames.
This war had barely started and I was already losing ground.
Determined to get the power back, I started acting up first thing in the morning, time to make some mischief.
"Franklin, I want Bouillabaisse," I demanded, sitting at the dining table like I owned the place.
"Now?" Franklin asked, wearing the pink strawberry apron I'd bought him, spatula in hand.
Yes, I was totally making things difficult for him. I'd like to see how he was going to handle this.
Bouillabaisse was a nightmare to make; just prepping the ingredients took a whole day. I'd see how he magically whipped that up.
"Right now. Immediately. Chop chop!" I barked.
Franklin, my trusty helper, simply looked at me with no hint of trouble and flashed a grin.
"Alright," he said.
Then he just turned and strolled into the kitchen.
Just half an hour later, Franklin set a steaming, mouthwatering bowl of Bouillabaisse right in front of me.
The broth was a rich golden color, filled with abalone, sea cucumber, shark fin, and other luxurious ingredients.
I had a taste, and the flavor was so rich and deep. It could put any five-star hotel chef to shame.
I was dumbfounded.
"How... how did you pull that off?" I stammered.
"I checked the weather last night and saw it was going to get cold today. Figured you might want something warm to start your day, so I prepped the ingredients ahead of time," Franklin said, taking off his apron and sitting down across from me, his tone so casual it was like he was just commenting on the weather.
My heart skipped a beat.
How did he know that was my favorite soup?
Suddenly, memories came flooding back.
Back in senior year, I was basically living in the art studio every day, barely eating, all for the art festival. One time, my stomach was killing me, so I grumbled to my desk mate, "Ugh, I really wish I had some Bouillabaisse."
Franklin was sitting right behind me.
The next day, I found a thermos in my desk, packed with steaming hot Bouillabaisse.
Back then, I thought some secret admirer had left it for me, so I bragged about it online.
But Franklin left a blunt comment: "Idiot."
I was so furious, I got into a shouting match with him and poured the whole thing out.
Looking back now...