2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Willa
So the billionaire liked my soufflé.
That’s fine. Men in expensive suits told me my food was delicious all the time. Part of the job. I make something beautiful, they say something pretty, we all go home.
Except this one picked up his dirty ramekin, carried it through the service hallway, and showed up in my kitchen doorway holding it like evidence. And then told me my chocolate was honest, which — what does that even mean? It’s chocolate. It doesn’t have a moral compass.
I’d Googled him. Obviously, I’d Googled him.
I waited until I got home because I have some dignity, but then I sat on my couch in my pajamas and typed his name, and the results were — a lot.
Magazine covers, society pages, event photos with a different woman in every frame.
Tall ones, short ones, blondes, brunettes, a French actress at some gala in Cannes.
He had a type: breathing and female. And willing to stand next to him while he aimed that smile at a camera.
So, a man who was charming to everyone and slept with everyone, had showed up in my kitchen to tell me my soufflé was special.
Got it. Filed. Moving on.
Two days later, Evie materialized at the kitchen pass while I was piping rosettes.
“He’s asking about your schedule.”
I didn’t look up. “Who?”
“Don’t who me, you little minx! Jagger fucking Cross called Lola personally to find out when you’re working next. Not when the kitchen’s working. When you’re working. Your name. Specifically.”
“He probably wants to book an event.”
“He wants to book you.”
“Evie.”
“Or something that rhymes with book.”
“Evie!”
“I’m just delivering information.” She stole a broken rosette off my tray. “What you do with it is your business.”
“What I’m doing with it is nothing. He ate a soufflé. He enjoyed it. End of story.”
She ate the rosette and gave me a look that said she was going to be impossible about this for weeks.
I went back to my piping. Clean lines, steady hands.
This was what I was good at — the work. The focus.
Flour, sugar and butter don’t have opinions about you.
They don’t show up with compliments that feel like they mean something and then turn out to mean nothing.
They just do what they’re supposed to do.
On Thursday, Matteo wandered into the kitchen with a towel over his shoulder and a face I didn’t trust.
“What?” I said, without turning from my ganache.
“Private dinner tomorrow night. Jagger Cross. He requested you for the dessert course.”
“Okay.”
“By name.”
“I heard you.”
“Called Lola. On his personal phone.” Matteo leaned on the doorframe. He was enjoying this too much. “She said he was very insistent.”
I stirred my ganache. Steady. Even. “Get me his dietary requirements and I’ll build a dish.”
“Already asked. No requirements.” A pause. “Just you.”
I pointed my spatula at him. “Out.”
He went, hands up, grinning. I stood in my kitchen with chocolate on my fingers and my heart doing something I hadn’t given it permission to do.
Here’s what I knew about men who paid attention like that: nothing good. The last one started with compliments too. Told me my food was extraordinary. Made me feel seen. That story didn’t end well, and I wasn’t interested in a sequel.
But the ramekin. He’d carried a dirty dish through a service hallway. Men with that kind of money didn’t do that. They mentioned things to managers. They sent compliments through servers. They did not show up personally, slightly out of breath, looking at a soufflé like it owed him an explanation.
And his thumb. On the back of my hand, during that too-long handshake. I was almost sure it had moved. A tiny sweep. I’d spent two days talking myself out of it and two days failing.
I wrapped my ganache base. Put it in the walk-in. Stood in the cold a second longer than I needed to, letting it settle my skin and my breathing and the stupid fast thing my pulse was doing.
Tomorrow. I’d cook for his dinner. I’d make something incredible because that was what I did. If he showed up with that smile and more opinions about my chocolate, I’d be professional and pleasant and fine.
Fine.
Totally fine.