Chapter 24

The morning air was unusually cold, making me regret my choice of a large T‑shirt and flimsy shorts. I rubbed my shoulders, trying to bring some warmth back into them as I made my way to the kitchen. Velma was already there, busying herself with the coffee machine.

“Good morning, Velma. Is that for me?” I asked with a smile.

Velma and I had settled into a new rhythm over the past few weeks, one that felt different from the awkward dynamic we’d had when I first arrived. For one, she no longer woke me up at 8 a.m. I think she finally understood that I cherished my morning lie‑ins. And then there was the coffee , the cup she always made for me when I came downstairs, warm and creamy, just the way I liked it.

Of course, the fruit bowl never left my breakfast routine. Somehow, I appreciated it now more than before. It had become our little ritual, something small yet comforting to look forward to each morning.

“No ma’am, this is for Mr. Sinclair. I’ll make yours right after.”

I frowned, co