chapter2183

The number left Chelsea's lips before she realized how it might sound.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, cheeks warm. "Cooking isn't exactly my strong suit."

Living overseas, she had survived on takeout and instant meals. There was simply no need to tire herself out by cooking.

Jason smiled. "It's fine. I never expected you to cook. Ordering for me is already sweet of you. But from now on, just order for yourself—I can grab dinner at work."

In truth, he didn't have the heart to tell her that the meal had cost a small fortune.

For Chelsea, one thousand counted as frugal; for ordinary paychecks, it was an indulgence bordering on reckless.

Jason would sooner shoulder extra overtime than let her feel deprived, yet the price tag still knotted his stomach.

"That won't do. I won't have an appetite if I have to eat alone," she protested.

Jason nodded, defeated by the earnestness in her eyes. "All right—I'll come home earlier each night so we can eat together."

Chelsea laughed, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Mmm. You're simply the best!"

Budgeting was an abstract concept for her; by her standards, tonight's meal was practically austere.

Dinner finished, Jason leaned back, letting the hush settle over the apartment. Then the washing machine chimed a bright, insistent trill that sliced the quiet like a doorbell at midnight.

"I tossed your clothes in with mine earlier. I'll go hang them up now." Chelsea said, pride lilting through every syllable.

Jason blinked. "Clothes?" he echoed, confusion pooling in his eyes.

The next second, he rose from his chair, brushing invisible crumbs from his trousers. "It's okay. I'll do it," he said, voice gentle but firm.

Chelsea hurried after him, the hem of her cotton dress brushing the parquet as though she feared leaving him alone with any task at all.

Jason flipped the lid. The suit he had worn only once-a tailored, dry-clean-only navy-lay soggy, limp, and already wrinkled beyond belief. A twist of dread hit his ribs.

The tailored jacket was the kind that should never see a washing machine; each stitch meant for boardrooms and contracts, not the spin cycle.

"Chelsea." His quiet utterance of her name held more warmth than any reprimand. "What is it?" she asked, sliding a hanger free, her eager hands mid-motion.

Without a job to fill her days, she had decided that housework was the least she could offer him. The help she envisioned, however, had just turned into another weight on a shoulders.

She had only wanted to share the load, never realizing her help might become an extra weight on Jason's shoulders.

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it. You must be exhausted. Get some rest—I'll finish up here."

Jason knew she meant no harm; intent and outcome were simply quarreling tonight.

Chelsea glanced toward the kitchen, remembering the chaos she had left in her first attempt at dinner.

"All right, then I'll go clean up the kitchen," she whispered, gathering what resolve she had left.

Jason gave a quiet nod, grateful for the momentary truce.

The moment she left, he fished the drenched suit from the drum. Steam hissed off the fabric, wrinkles already setting like scars.

The suit was expensive, one he had bought specifically for meeting high-profile clients.

Now the suit was entirely ruined, testimony to her frantic evening.

Jason smoothed the lapels with a quick, practiced motion and slipped the hanger onto a hook hidden behind other clothes, as if tucking away the evidence of the mishap.

Clang!

Just then, a sharp crack rang out from the kitchen.

Jason sprinted down the hallway and slid to a stop. Shards of a bowl glittered

across the floor like broken ice around Chelsea's feet.

The catastrophe sprawled wider than the bowl. A pot smoked on the burner its bottom black as tar. Soot streaked the cabinets, and a mountain of dirty dishes fromed in the sink.

Chelsea stood among them, sleeves rolled to her elbows, snowy hands slick with detergent beside a shattered plate glinting on the floor.

"Why are you in here?" she blurted, flustered. "Get out and don't worry about it. I'll clean this up."

Jason frowned. "I thought you ordered takeout. How did the kitchen end up like a war zone?"

Color rushed to the woman's

cheeks. "I wanted to cook for you at

first, but nothing turned out right

and time was running short, Ldidn know what else to do. You were almost home, so I ordered in she confessed, guilt tightening every word.

She knew that instead of easing the weight Jason carried, her eager hands had only

stirred the chaos, piling fresh trouble onto her boyfriend's already burdened

shoulders.