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Taggie had been up since five in the morning, leaving the house before the sun had even begun to rise. Everyone had warned her that she was spreading herself too thin, that she couldn’t do catering for two events and still work a shift at her restaurant today, but if Taggie was anything, she was deeply stubborn.
Or as she liked to retort to Rupert when he was teasing her- his tone laced with concern and fondness towards her, I’m not stubborn, I’m just determined.
The first catering gig went off without a hitch, just needing to set up a simple breakfast buffet of her freshly baked pastries, cut fruit, and a few kegs of freshly brewed coffee and tea.
The next job, however, was when disaster struck. Specifically, getting lost on the winding countryside dirt roads she drove through from the church where the WI was fundraising, on her way to the Falconry, having to swerve to miss hitting a lost baby lamb that was standing behind a blind corner. While the lamb had trotted away into the woods, unbothered by the fact that it almost died a gruesome death, Taggie cried onto the steering wheel as the remnants of the extravagantly decorated cake she made for Monica’s garden party today ran slowly down the inside of her windscreen. The pink frosted flowers, once beautiful and perfect, now streak on the glass as they fall to the dashboard.
Fuck, she curses to herself as sobs wrack her body from her frustration with the loss of the cake. With no one coming to rescue her, Taggie wipes the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, sniffling as she rummages through her work bag for something to clean the window enough to see.
She’d have to stop at the first telephone she could find, explain what happened, race back home, and make another cake as quickly as she could. She’d also have to call the restaurant to make sure that Anna and Carl would be okay getting prep done until she was able to come in. With the windshield cleared enough and the bits of cake picked from her hair, Taggie starts the car and carefully trudges her way down the country road, driving extra carefully lest she have another accident due to wild animals on the road. She stops when she sees bright red peering through the summer foliage, a phone booth.
Due to her stress, it took her a few tries to get the number correctly, with her dyslexia causing the numbers to jump and swirl on the piece of paper. With her last coin, Taggie was able to reach Monica Baddingham and explain what had happened.
“I’m so sorry,” she cried down the line. “The lamb came out of nowhere, and now the cake is ruined. I can make you another one, though! It will just be late.” The words flood out of her, stumbling and tripping over one another in a rush to get them all out before the tears fully clog her throat.
“Taggie,” Monica said calmly into the receiver. When she hears Taggie sniffle and continue to apologize profusely, Monica purses her lips. “Agatha!” she cries out, cutting Taggie off.
“Yes, Mrs. Baddingham?”
“Is all of the food ruined, or just the cake?”
“Just the cake,” Taggie says, trying to explain further, but bites her lip when Monica tuts at her, even through the phon,e her demeanor commands the respect to be listened to.
“Agatha, darling, between all of the pies, pastries, and the wealth of drink we’ll be enjoying today, I don’t believe anyone will miss the cake,” Monica explains with a fond sigh. “Just bring the food and yourself in one piece. Everything will be okay.”
“It’s really no-.”
“Agatha,” Monica says sternly, leaving no room for discussion.
“I’ll be over right away,” Taggie says, hanging up the phone and sprinting back to the car. As the car struggles to start, Taggie takes a shuddering breath, tears welling up again. As the engine finally turns over, she lets out a breath of relief and realizes the tears this time are from the simple kindness and understanding that was shown to her - not from the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Arriving at the restaurant after her eventful morning, Taggie is flocked by her staff to inform her of all the issues that have come up while they were working to open the restaurant for dinner service.
The fish never arrived. What is our special going to be tonight without it?
The dishwasher is on the fritz again, and no one can remember how you said to fix it. I tried, but it just started spraying hot water everywhere when I opened the door.
Jenny called in sick, said she was throwing up all night. No one is willing to cover her shift, so we are down a server.
All the prep wasn’t done by the closing crew last night, so we’re running behind.
Taggie takes a brief moment to sit behind the desk in her cramped office, the surface covered from edge to edge with receipts, purchase orders, notes from her staff of days they need off, and anything else that accumulated over the week. She grasps the roots of her hair with her fingertips and lets out a deep sigh. Her feet and back already ache; now her head swims with a million ideas on how to fix everything in the two hours before they open.
Not for the first time, she closes her eyes and thinks everyone was right, running a business is hard.
Pushing herself up from the desk, she decides to handle the issues in the order they were brought to her. Taggie walks into the large walk-in cooler that houses all of the fresh meats, fruits, and vegetables in stock. She runs her eyes over every shelf, trying to think of something simple, yet special, that could replace the typical grilled sea bass that they would’ve served tonight. Eying the wild mushrooms sitting next to each other in the corner of the cool room, inspiration strikes.
Taggie gathers the variety of mushrooms and the container of peas in her arms, piling them on top with an onion, some garlic, and the block of parmesan. Arms almost full to spilling, she pours the items on the counter and begins working on a recipe for a replacement risotto, mushrooms, and peas, with slices of grilled filet of steak served on top. A sprinkle of chopped parsley over the top of it, and voila.
Tick, a problem solved.
One issue solved, she moves on to the next. She brings the dirty dishes she made from creating the special back to what she affectionately calls the pit. Short for cess pit, as the dishwashing area of her restaurant at the end of a busy day reeked of rotting food from the meals of the day mixed with the smell of standing water, left on the floor from round after round of dishes slung through the machine. Using all of her strength, Taggie muscles open the door to the dishwasher just enough to stick her arm in, jostling the silverware that had flown up and lodged the door closed.
I’ll have to buy more forks, one more thing onto the to-do list, she thinks to herself, huffing out a breath upwards to try and blow the strands of curls falling into her face.
Pulling her arm free of the door, she lets it slam down as her grip finally slips. The machine whirs to life as the door shuts, magically working perfectly again.
Tick, another problem solved.
Taggie stands at the counter, the cord of the phone stretched taut from the wall as she holds it to her ear with her shoulder. She listens to the phone ring and ring as she takes her frustration from the day out on a head of lettuce. She slams the root against the hard surface, picking it up and digging her thumb in to remove the root whole.
“Hello?” she faintly hears through the line.
“Cait! Thank god you answered!” Taggie slices the sharp chef’s knife easily through the lettuce head, chopping it into bite-sized pieces for salads tonight. “How do you feel about making some money?”
“Tonight?” Cait asks, and Taggie can hear the hesitance in her voice.
“I promise you’ll be the first one cut, so you can still go see Archie.” Cait gasps and splutters on the other end for her words. “Oh, please,” Taggie says with a fond eye roll, slamming a new head of lettuce against the counter. “I know you two have been sneaking off to see each other since last New Year’s Eve. So can you help me?”
There is a moment of silence, just the in and out of Caitlin’s breath as she thinks, and the rhythmic chopping of lettuce.
Slam, crunch, slice, chop, scrape. Repeating over and over again as she fills the large tub with the lettuce with her fluid movements.
“Okay,” Cait eventually says with a sigh. “But only because you’re like the best sister ever.”
Taggie breathes out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, a smile forming on her face. “I love you so much, Cait. I’ll see you soon!”
Anna walks through the swinging doors, and Taggie turns to gently throw the phone at her. Anna catches it easily, putting it back on the hook where she was standing.
“Little warning next time, Tag?”
“Sorry, no time! I’m almost done with salad prep, the new special is on the counter, the dishwasher is working again, and Cait is coming in to cover Jenny’s shift. Cait needs to be cut first as soon as it gets slow.” Taggie turns, knife still in her hand, as she points at Anna. “I don’t care how much the other girls whine, Cait gets to leave first.”
Anna raises her hands in mock surrender. “No need to threaten me,” she laughs, a wry smile on her face. “Cait goes first. Guess this is why we call you the boss, you fixed everything in just over an hour. You’re amazing, Taggie.”
Taggie gives her a smile, cheeks flushing slightly at her hard work being acknowledged. “All in a day's work. Can you please tell Carl to stop smoking in the alley and to get his ass in here before I fire him?”
Anna gives her a salute, walking across the kitchen to yell out the back door. Taggie chops at the head of lettuce on her cutting board, the knife slipping from the moisture of the lettuce, and cutting into the tip of her thumb.
“Fuck,” she cries out, quickly moving her hand away from the food, lest it all become contaminated. Anna and Carl come in from the alleyway, their bickering cut short by the sight of the blood pooled on the bright white cutting board. Their eyes go to Taggie, who is wrapping a towel around her thumb. “Can one of you throw that lettuce away, wash the knife and board?”
“Are you okay?’ they simultaneously ask, ignoring her request.
It takes all of Taggie’s strength not to yell and scream at them no, I’m not okay. I’m bleeding, covered in dirty dishwater, and surrounded by idiots who can’t do anything right! Instead of letting it all out, she swallows it down to the pit of her stomach, nodding her head.
“Yeah, I’m going to go get a plaster. Will one of you clean this up? We still need to make sure the line is stocked before we open,” checking the large clock hanging on the wall, she throws her head back in defeat, letting a small groan of despair leave her lips. “In twenty minutes.”
The hour is now late. The dinner service has finished, the last tables served the final meals of the night, and now the restaurant has grown quiet, the staff moving slowly for the first time in hours as they put everything back to rights. Taggie sweeps the floor, a pile of wasted food and paper tickets forming in the middle of the kitchen floor as her staff refill bins and wash the last of the dishes.
Eventually, the work is done. The chairs are stacked, floors mopped, and everyone's tips sorted. They say their goodbyes, wishing each other a good night's sleep after the chaotic shift. Taggie practically collapses into the seat of her car, praying it will start when she turns the key.
The engine groans, it sputters as it tries to crank to life, only to eventually die out. She rests her forehead against the steering wheel, muttering a whispered prayer to a god she struggles to believe in, that the car will start. Taggie turns the keys again, a high-pitched whining noise coming from the engine as it struggles to turn over. She slams her hand against the wheel, wincing at the pain of her burns and cuts on her hand from tonight's shift. Trying one more time, the engine finally roars to life, and she lets out a sigh of relief before finally making her way to her final stop before she’s allowed to fall asleep.
Taggie winces at the late hour as her car slowly putters down the gravel driveway and feels even guiltier when she sees the faint orange glow of a cigarette from the porch as she pulls to a stop. She turns off the car, stepping out with a frown.
“I’m so sorry that I’m late,” she begins to explain. “I almost hit a baby lamb on the road this moring leaving the WI, and had to spend so much time this morning cleaning Monica Baddingham’s cake off the windscreen of the car because of it afterwards, only to go to the restaurant and find that everything there was a complete mess. We had so many people show up without a reservation tonight, so we were on an hour-long wait list, and they waited! They actually waited! Like psychopaths, they waited for an hour just to have a meal made by me!”
She stands there, fingers working nervously in front of her stomach, waiting for something to be said. Instead, the cigarette glows in the night again before it’s thrown to the side. The smoke pours smoothly from between his lips before he stands and pulls her into his arms.
“Angel,” Rupert purrs, low and loving. “I’ve told you to never apologize for being successful.” He cups her cheek, tilting her head up to place a kiss against her lips. It’s chaste, more of a peck than anything, him being mindful of how the cigarette smoke on his breath usually makes her nose wrinkle.
“Rupert,” she whines, pushing him away. “I’m all gross, covered in spilled food and dishwater.”
He tightens his grip on her, letting her give in and accept his affection. Taggie leaned into his touch, like the warmth of his skin could burn away all her worries just like the ash of his cigarettes. Burn away all her aches and pains, all the troubles of her day. A moment later, she opens her eyes and realizes she was right, his touch did feel like it was healing all of her woes.
“Let’s go inside, angel. It’s cold out here.” He guides her inside with a warm hand placed at the base of her spine. She bends down to untie her shoes, but he stops with a gentle tut of his tongue. “Sit, let me.”
Taggie sits on the bottom step of the staircase. She rests her head against the bannister, watching Rupert’s lithe fingers work with a dexterity she lacks after the long day, pulling her shoes off one at a time and running his hands up her aching legs with a firm touch. Her eyes close, relishing his soothing touch.
“Bath or shower?” he asks, smirking when it takes her a moment to flutter her eyes open and process his words. “My poor duck, you’re exhausted. Let’s have a nice hot bath, yes?”
Taggie can only nod, wrapping her tiny aching fingers around his extended hands and letting him pull her up easily with his strength. She follows him slowly up the stairs to his bedroom, her favorite room in all of Penscombe. He leads her into the ensuite and pats his hand against the counter.
“Sit down, I’ll fill the bath, and you’ll feel better soon enough.”
Taggie listens, using the remaining amount of her strength to lift herself onto the counter and watching as he glides around the bathroom. Steaming hot water fills the tub as he pours in her favorite scents of rose and jasmine, the soap froths under the rushing water, and Taggie’s body aches to slip inside it.
Rupert gives her a smile when he catches her eyeing the bath with hunger, as if it were her last meal. “It’s almost ready, darling,” he says as he walks over to her. He spreads her legs, stepping in between them, and slips his fingers under the hem of her shirt. “Lift your arms for me, let’s get you out of these clothes.”
“I can do it myself,” she says, her Irish stubbornness seeping into her tone at how he babies her like this.
“I know you can,” he replies softly, his thumb rubbing a gentle circle into the skin of her stomach. “But I want to.”
Rupert slips the shirt up over Taggie’s head once she raises her arms, letting the garment fall to the floor. His eyes rove over her body, dark and hungry for a brief moment before his brows knit together. She grows self-conscious, begins wrapping her arms around her middle, but he’s faster than her. His hands wrap around her wrists, and he shakes his head, realizing she misunderstood the look on his face.
“I’m sorry.” He pulls her arms from around her waist and lets her display herself to him. “Don’t think for a moment that you aren’t absolutely perfect the way you are. I was just thinking that I need to feed you more.” As though to prove his point, he runs his fingers over her ribs as though they were a xylophone. She lets out a giggle at the soft touch, wiggling in protest on the countertop. Rupert smiles, stopping his torture and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll get you something to eat after the bath. Come, let’s get these pants off and start to relax.”
Rupert helps her into the bath, letting her tired body soak in the warm, floral-scented water. Picking up the fluffy washcloth, he begins to gently rub it in small circles against her leg. She lets out a moan, enjoying his touch as much as she is enjoying feeling clean again.
“I know you like to scrub your skin raw after a shift,” she hears him whisper, as though he’s afraid of popping the bubbling they have created. “But your skin is so delicate, like silk.” He runs his bare hand up and down her leg, taking a deep breath at how she squirms under his touch. “I just can’t bring myself to hurt it.” His hand continues its slow, torturous path up and down her leg, washcloth forgotten about as he lets his knuckles ghost over the inside of her thigh. Goosebumps form on her skin despite the heat of the water, and his smile turns wicked.
“Will you join me?” she asks, biting on her bottom lip.
“I’m right here,” he answers, scooting closer.
“You know what I mean.”
Rupert stands, unable to deny his angel anything, and his knees crack as he does. He makes quick work of his clothes, stripping down to nothing before her as she makes room for him to slip into the tub behind her.
His arms wrap around her, holding her close to his chest. He noses at her ear, pressing a kiss to her neck.
“Better?”
She rests her head on his shoulder, a content smile on her face. “Much.”
As she lies against him, Rupert finds the abandoned washcloth and starts washing her again. He covers every inch of her, rubbing his fingers into her aching flesh until she is flushed, rosy pink. He lets her lie against him long after he is done, their fingers growing pruney as she enjoys the hot water and the deep, peaceful relaxation she only ever seems to find in his arms. Only when he fears she may begin to fall asleep does he make her get out, drying her with one of his fluffy towels before worrying about his own body.
He sits her up on the counter of the bathroom again, taking her scarred and burned hands into his own. Rupert finds the tube of cream he keeps on hand just for her, rubbing it gently into the new white burns that have formed from working tonight. He then replaces the plaster on her finger, pressing a kiss to it once he’s done.
Taggie tries to get up from the counter, but he stops her, lifting her in his arms instead. Rupert carries her with ease into the bedroom, depositing her onto the bed where she sits and waits, watching as he pulls silky emerald green pajamas from his dresser. A set that he’s purchased just for her, that he keeps next to his own. It makes something flutter in her chest, a hope that what they’re doing here isn’t a fleeting thing. Not just a passing moment. Taggie wasn’t just another notch in his bedpost, but something permanent.
Rupert helps her slip into the pajamas, buttoning the top one by one with such tenderness that she feels her body start to ache again, but in a different way. He pulls the covers back and lets her slip in under them.
“Try to stay awake until I get back,” he whispers, pressing another tender kiss to her forehead. He leaves the bedroom, the towel from the bath still slung low on his hips. Taggie works hard to keep her eyes open, to keep from slipping into rest after all the comfort he’s given her tonight. She looks over at the clock on the bedside table and feels guilt in her stomach at it being almost midnight now. Despite her most valiant of efforts, Rupert comes back to find her eyes closed, the covers pulled up to her chest as she sits up in the bed.
“Angel,” he whispers, hating how sharp her cheekbone feels under the thumb he rubs across it. “I brought you some dinner.”
Taggie shuffles, her eyes fluttering open at his tender touch and the smell of food. She sees him standing before her with a bowl of tomato soup and a cheese toastie, cut into the shape of a heart. He sits on the edge of the bed, setting the plate down on the nightstand.
“It’s nothing fancy,” he admits.
“It’s perfect,” she says, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s soft at first, a thank you for all he’s done. But her hunger for him outweighs her hunger for the food next to her. She twists her fingers in his hair, holding him to her as she kisses him deeper, her tongue slipping in and tangling with his own. Rupert groans, pulling back and giving her a breathless smile. Taggie bites at her bottom lip, looking at him seductively through her eyelashes, and she can tell it takes all of Rupert’s willpower to pull away.
“Eat up,” he says, sounding almost pained, before getting up and going over to the dresser for his own clothes now. He puts on just a pair of boxers before sliding under the covers next to Taggie. She’s holding the plate on her lap now, ready to tuck in as he demanded when he plucks up half of the heart-shaped sandwich. He holds it in between his fingers, lifting it in front of her mouth and waving it enticingly. Taggie can’t help but giggle, his silly side always being her favorite part of him.
“Come on, darling,” he coos. “I didn’t even burn it this time, take a bite.”
Taggie leans forward a fraction, biting into the crusty, buttery bread. It tastes divine, the ratio of cheese to bread is perfect, and he’s right - he didn’t burn it this time. She moans around the bite, and as she chews, he dips the sandwich into the soup before bringing it back to her mouth.
“I can feed myself,” she argues, leaning forward to take another bite.
“Where’s the fun in that? An angel like you deserves to be hand-fed every meal.” She rolls her eyes, giving him a glare that quickly melts under his affectionate smile. Taggie eats half of the sandwich before setting the plate to the side, slipping further down under the covers to lie next to him.
Rupert pulls her into his arms, tucking her head against his chest as he runs his hand up and down her spine. She closes her eyes, matching her breath to the steady thump, thump, thump, of his heartbeat under her ear. Taggie lets out a contented sigh, swirling her finger in the fuzzy fleece of hair that coats his chest.
The comfortable silence stretches out between them, the pleasure of being held in each other's arms all they need as the moonlight leaks into the room through the gauzy curtains. Rupert is just about to drift off to sleep, assuming that Taggie had fallen asleep long ago, when he hears her whisper into the darkness.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “You always take such good care of me.”
His chest swells with pride at the fact that he is the one to bring her comfort, to take care of her when the rest of the world forgets.
“Of course,” he whispers back, his voice too tender, too soft with his emotions.
“I’m sorry I ruined our Valentine’s Day by showing up so late.”
“Nonsense,” he immediately says, leaning to press a kiss to the crown of her hair. “I wouldn’t have wanted to spend it any other way.”
Wrapped in each other's arms, their legs tangled together, and their breathing synced, Rupert and Taggie fall asleep into a deep and peaceful sleep that can only be found lying with the one you love.