Chapter 1 #2
I turn to grab what I think is cinnamon for the butternut squash soup and shake it liberally into the pot. I need it to add warmth to complement the sage, a hint of sweetness to balance the earthy squash.
The smell hits me immediately. Wrong. So wrong. Not warm and sweet but sharp, almost bitter.
"Shit," I breathe, staring at the container.
Cumin. Not cinnamon. The soup is ruined.
Twenty-five minutes left and I've just destroyed one of my four courses.
My chest tightens, panic clawing at my throat.
This is it. I've blown it. My one chance at a job that could save me, and I've ruined it with a stupid, amateur mistake.
"Hey." Knox appears at my elbow, voice low. He moves with surprising stealth for someone so tall. He presses a jar of actual cinnamon into my hand, taking the cumin. His fingers brush mine, warm and steady.
My eyes burn with sudden gratitude. This stranger is trying to help me—to save my ass. "Thank you," I whisper while I quickly scoop out the cumin that’s sitting on the top of the soup, praying that will fix the problem.
"We've all been there." His smile is genuine and kind. "You're doing great. Seriously. That thing you did with the scallops? The way you scored them? Pure artistry."
I want to hug him, want to cry, want to do something to show how much this small kindness means. But instead, I turn back to my soup, adding the correct spice this time. The save costs me precious minutes, but I push harder, move faster. I can still do this. I have to do this.
The scallops sear perfectly, the cauliflower purees smooth as silk.
I add a drop of truffle oil at the last second, watching it shimmer on the surface.
The soup recovers beautifully, the sage adding exactly the right earthy note.
The duck breast is pink and juicy, the cherry reduction glossy and rich with the depth of aged port.
And the soufflé—by some miracle—rises tall and proud, not a single crack in its chocolate surface.
"Time," William announces.
I step back, breathing hard, sweat beading at my temples. Four courses. Four perfect courses, even under these asinine circumstances. Pride swells in my chest, unfamiliar after so long.
They taste in silence. William's expression gives nothing away as he moves methodically through each dish, taking small, precise bites.
Knox makes little appreciative noises that he tries to muffle when his brother glares.
Travis simply eats, but I catch him closing his eyes during the duck course, savoring.
His whole face changes when he tastes something he loves—younger, almost boyish.
"The seasoning on the scallops?" William finally asks.
"Smoked paprika and a touch of cayenne. It plays against the sweetness of the cauliflower." My voice is steadier now. This I can do. I can talk about food all day.
"The soup seems to have an unusual depth."
My stomach clenches. Can he taste my near-disaster? "I used a combination of cinnamon and nutmeg, plus a splash of apple cider for acidity."
"Hmm." He sets down his spoon with a precise click against the bowl. "The duck?"
"The cherry reduction has port and a hint of rosemary."
"And you started with the soufflé."
"Yes." I lift my chin, meeting his gaze directly. "Time management is crucial in any kitchen."
William leans back in his chair, those steely eyes studying me. The silence stretches, and stretches, until I want to scream. Knox fidgets, drumming his paint-stained fingers against the marble. Travis watches his friend with an unreadable expression.
"When can you start?"
I blink. "I'm sorry?"
"The job. When can you start?"
"I... immediately. I can start immediately." The words tumble out too fast, too eager, but I don't care.
"Good. Because we're leaving for Switzerland tomorrow morning, and we need you with us."
"Switzerland?" My voice cracks slightly.
Knox grins, bouncing slightly on his heels like an excited puppy. "It’s a business trip. We're expanding into European markets, lots of supplier meetings. Cheese, chocolate, the works. Plus, we always spend the holidays at our chalet. It's tradition."
"The holidays. As in Christmas. In Switzerland." I'm repeating things like an idiot, but my brain can't quite process this.
"Is that a problem?" William's tone suggests it better not be.
"No. No, of course not." What else can I say? I need this job. I need the money. I need to be anywhere but here, where memories of Dylan haunt every corner.
"Excellent. Travis will email you the details. Be at Teterboro Airport tomorrow morning, six sharp. Don't be late."
"Private jet," Knox adds helpfully. "You'll love it. There's a coffee machine that makes the most incredible espresso. And the seats? Like clouds. Actual clouds."
Private jet. Switzerland. These men who wear watches worth more than most people's cars. What have I gotten myself into?
"Thank you," I manage. "I won't let you down."
William's expression softens, just for a moment. So brief I might have imagined it. "No, Ms. Stevens. I don't believe you will."
As I leave the penthouse, my head spinning with everything that just happened, I can still feel their eyes on me.
William's assessing and cold, Knox's warm and playful, Travis's steady and kind.
Three very different men, but all of them looking at me like.
.. like what? Like I'm more than just the hired help?
No. I can't think like that. Can't make that mistake again. This is a job, nothing more. A very well-paying job that will get me back on my feet, help me rebuild everything Dylan stole from me.
But as I hail a cab on the street below, I can't shake the feeling that my life just took a turn I never saw coming.
A little over an hour ago, I was desperate for any job that would keep me afloat.
Now I'm flying to Switzerland with three billionaires who make my skin tingle in ways I thought Dylan had killed forever.
My phone buzzes. An email from Travis Hale, as promised. Flight details, packing suggestions, a note about the weather in the Alps. Professional, thorough, but there's a line at the bottom that makes me smile:
PS - That was the best chocolate soufflé I've ever had. Welcome to the team.
Oh my god, there’s so much to do. I wanted this job desperately, but I had no idea it would start so soon. And in Switzerland, no less.
I begin to make a list of all the things I need to do before I leave.
Change my dentist appointment (for the fourth time—I’ll probably have to look for a new dentist).
Find someone to feed my fish (thank god I don’t have any other animals that require more detailed care).
I have mounds of laundry that needs to be washed.
And pack, of course. What does one pack for the holidays in Switzerland?
I wish I had some money right now. I would absolutely go shopping. But what I own will have to do.
I close my eyes, letting the taxi carry me home to pack. Tomorrow, everything changes. Tomorrow, I fly to Switzerland with men who could buy and sell my entire world without blinking.
What could possibly go wrong?