Fake marrying my new boss

Breakfast with worries

*Kiera*

Sunlight streams through the window, casting a warm glow across the room and stirring me from a deep sleep. I blink a few times, slowly realising where I am. The couch is surprisingly comfortable, and the blanket draped over me still carries the faint scent of Mr. Lund… nothing overwhelming, just a comforting mix of warmth and something uniquely him. It’s a pleasant smell, and I find it oddly soothing.

As I sit up, I take a moment to look around. The room is filled with an eclectic mix of furniture and decor that somehow manages to feel both modern and homey, somehow it is not what I expected… I guess I thought his style would be more minimalistic.

On the coffee table lies a book about Danish architecture, its pages well-thumbed and inviting. A pink box peeks out from beneath it, overflowing with coloring supplies, Lego pieces, and a few dolls. I smile to myself, realizing they must belong to Frida, waiting for her visits.

Suddenly, the mouthwatering aroma of bacon wafts through the air, and my stomach growls in response. I did not really get much to eat yesterday, and my body seems to realise.

“Kiera! Come here!” Mr. Lund calls from the kitchen area, and I spring to my feet, eager to see what he’s made.

As I step into the kitchen, my heart skips a beat. There he stands, bare-chested, his toned physique accentuated by a pair of grey sweatpants. His sandy hair is tousled, and for a moment, he looks like he just stepped out of an aftershave commercial… rugged yet effortlessly handsome. I quickly remind myself that this isn’t what I should be focusing on, especially not now.

“Can you mind the food? I have to take this call,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a smile that makes my heart flutter.

“Of course!” I respond, trying to keep my tone casual, though I can feel my cheeks heat.

He steps out onto the balcony, his phone already pressed to his ear, and I catch a glimpse of him pacing back and forth, his expression tense as he speaks. I can’t quite hear what he’s saying, and I am also pretty sure it is Danish, but the urgency in his voice is palpable. I feel a pang of concern for him… he’s carrying so much, and I wish there was something I could do to lighten his load.

Turning my attention back to the stove, I can see that he’s cooked bacon to perfection, the strips sizzling, on another pan is scrambled eggs. My stomach growls again, and just then, the oven dings. I hurry over to find a tray of freshly made Danish pastries, golden and flaky, resting inside. My mouth waters at the sight; they look absolutely divine. Quickly I find the oven mittens and get them out.

I open the fridge, hoping to find something to complement the breakfast, and I’m pleasantly surprised. He must have food delivered yesterday, as It’s stocked with fresh produce, a rainbow of fruits, and even a few containers of iced coffee. I chuckle to myself, realizing I’ve never seen Mr. Lund drink iced coffee before; he always opts for black. I wonder if he bought them for me, knowing how much I enjoy it. Has he really noticed that?

I glance back outside at Mr. Lund, still pacing the balcony, his posture tense. I want to reach out to him, to let him know that he’s not alone in this, but I respect his space. Instead, I focus on plating the pastries, bacon and eggs, creating a small spread that I hope will brighten his morning.

As I finish setting the table, Mr. Lund strides back into the kitchen, his expression darkening the moment he steps inside. The warmth of the room contrasts sharply with his flushed skin, a sign that the cold air on the balcony has ruffled him more than I realized.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, concern lacing my voice. He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a low, frustrated mumble in Danish that sounds like a curse.

“It’s just…” He takes a deep breath, his jaw tightening. “My lawyer fears it will be difficult for me to get custody over Frida.”

“That’s crazy!” I exclaim, my voice rising slightly. “You’re her uncle. You love her. That should be enough!”

He throws his hands up, his frustration spilling over. “It’s absurd!” The tension in the air thickens, and I can see how much he’s struggling to keep it all together.

“Are you the only family she has?” I ask, hoping to understand the situation better.

“I’m the closest,” he replies, his voice strained. “But my uncle and aunt have shown up, saying they want custody too.”

A chill runs down my spine at the to e in which he mentions them. I take a step closer, sensing the weight of this moment. “And you don’t think they’re fit?”

He slams his hand down on the table, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. “They cannot have Frida!” The raw emotion in his voice sends a shiver through me.

I raise my hands in a soothing gesture. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a breath here.” I take a moment to collect my thoughts, trying to reassure him. “Mr. Lund, you’re a good uncle and she clearly adores you. That should count for something.”

He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes darting away from mine as if this is a bit hard for him to say. “The lawyer is worried about my past, about how much I work. They might not want her to be taken to America. They fear she won’t get the right treatment.”

I feel my heart ache for him. “But you can afford the best medical care. You can give her everything she needs. They have to consider that.”

He snaps at me, “Then you should go tell child services that!” The bite in his tone is harsh, but I can see the exhaustion pooling beneath his anger. He catches himself, his shoulders slumping as he adds, “I’m just… stressed. I’m sorry.”

I nod, trying to keep my voice calm. “Let’s just eat before the food gets cold.”

He looks at the spread on the table, and I notice a flicker of something in his eyes. “All this food is for you. I ate two hours ago,” he replies, his voice softening, yet still distant.

“You were up at…” I check the clock on the wall. “Five AM to eat?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” He mumbles, glancing between the food and me. “I’ll go shower,” he says at last, turning away as if retreating into himself.

“Don’t give up,” I urge him, feeling a sense of urgency in my voice. “On Frida, I mean. We’ll find a way through this.”

He stops at the doorway, his back to me, and I can see the tension in his posture. “Thank you,” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper before he walks away.

As the door clicks shut behind him, I take a deep breath, before sitting down at the table, staring at the spread before me. It’s surreal to think that my boss, a man burdened with so much, took the time to prepare breakfast for me. I can’t help but smile at the thought, even as my heart aches for him.