10. French Omelette #2
He went back to his coffee, but a bit of warmth entered those steely eyes. I felt like every bit of me was being examined by Lucas Lyons. And I couldn’t say I hated the feeling.
Daniel shrugged, already moving around the counter. “Well, this I’ve got to try.”
“Oh, it’s not ready yet—” I started, but he was already dipping his finger into the churning mixture.
“For fuck’s sake, Daniel,” Lucas snapped. “Get your hands out of the food. Jesus.”
“It’s okay,” I told him. “I can start another batch. It won’t take me that long.”
“That’s beside the point. He should have listened to you.”
“Relax, it’s just a taste. Marie doesn’t mind. Do you, Marie?” Daniel held up his finger, examining the pale green mixture. Then, to my shock, he held it toward my mouth. “Here, tell me what you think. If you say it’s good, I’ll try it.”
Heat flooded my cheeks as I became acutely aware of both brothers’ eyes on me—Daniel’s big blue skies, eager with anticipation, and Lucas’s storm clouds filled with equal interest and something much darker.
I opened my mouth hesitantly, and Daniel slipped his finger past my lips.
And I thought—I thought —something like a growl purred from across the marble counter.
“That’s it,” Daniel murmured, his eyes brightening like a dimmer switch had turned them up. “Good?”
I nodded, unable to speak with his finger still in my mouth. This was beyond inappropriate. I was standing in my place of work, my boss watching while I sucked on his brother’s index finger like it was—well, like it was something else.
Was Daniel going to take it out? The custard was delicious, but this clearly wasn’t about food anymore for him.
What would Joni do in a moment like this?
Answer: My sister would flirt her ass off. She’d lick the finger like she was French-kissing a lollipop, drive both men crazy, and make a hilarious comment that was a double entendre for fellatio.
Yet another act I’d never even come close to doing.
When Daniel finally withdrew his hand, I caught Lucas’s reflection in the stainless-steel surface of the ice cream machine. His expression was the equivalent of a level-five tornado.
“Excellent.” Daniel dipped his finger into the cream again—the same one—and took a taste for himself. Yeah, I’d be tossing the whole batch. “Hot damn, that is actually killer. We’ll have to call you Chef Marie.”
“She is a chef.” Lucas rubbed his forehead like he was getting a migraine. “It’s literally what we sent her to Paris to become. You know this.”
Daniel didn’t seem to be paying attention. “So, listen. I know the other night in the conservatory didn’t work out, so I’m thinking I owe you dinner. What do you say to Friday? Carbone? Or would you prefer Pastis?”
My heart hammered in time with the ice cream’s mixing paddle. This was what I’d dreamed of for years. And yet…I had to say no.
“I…that sounds lovely, Daniel, but?—”
“Perfect. I’ll have my assistant make reservations.” His grin lit up the entire room.
My God, how did anyone say no to that ever?
Behind me, I heard Lucas’s coffee cup land a bit harder than necessary on the counter.
“No,” I tried again. “I mean, it sounds fun, but I have to?—”
“Do you have any allergies?” Daniel was already pulling out his phone, presumably to text his assistant.
“Don’t you have something productive to do right now?” Lucas’s voice was sharper than one of my knives. “Or are you planning to spend another day swimming in liquor and contaminating our food?”
Daniel darted an irritated look at his brother. “Come on, Lucas. It’s Sunday morning. Loosen the tie and go back to bed, why don’t you?”
“It’s Monday, Daniel.” A muscle at the bottom of Lucas’s jaw ticked. “And what Marie is tactfully trying to tell you is that she can’t go out Friday night because, unlike you, she has a job. Here. Cooking for us .”
The silence in the kitchen was so thick, I could have scooped it like the ice cream I had been trying to make.
“Really?” Daniel asked.
I shrugged. “Well, yeah. But we could probably do it on?—”
“Actually, it doesn’t matter.” He tore his gaze from his Lucas, and when it landed back on me, the sun was shining bright again.
There were still a few clouds in that expression, but they were more like the fluffy white ones that would dissipate with a light breeze.
“Nightcaps are more fun anyway. I’ll stay for dinner, and when you’re done in here, I’ll meet you in the conservatory. Just like we planned. Sound good?”
I glanced at Lucas, who seemed to be waiting for my response, then back to Daniel, whose smile still made my heart flutter.
Seize the day , Lea had told me.
And no one was saying no , right?
“Sure,” I relented. “A nightcap on Saturday would be great. We’re usually finished in here around nine.”
“Then I’ll be waiting by the orchids at nine fifteen.
” With another smirk at Lucas, Daniel snuck a quick kiss to my cheek, lacing the air around me with his signature cologne and a whiff of a martini.
“See you later, gorgeous.” He practically skipped around the counter and plucked Lucas’s cappuccino off its saucer. “I’ll just take this with me.”
After he left, I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out why the room felt warmer without him.
A minute or two had passed before I realized that Lucas had remained and was eyeing his empty saucer like his brother hadn’t just stolen his drink.
“I can make you another.” I hurried to the fridge.
He stood quickly, making the leg of his stool screech on the hard floor. “Don’t bother. I have to get into the city for meetings at nine.”
He paused at the threshold, his storm-gray eyes meeting mine for a brief, intense moment that made my breath catch.
“Have a good day, Marie,” he said quietly.
Then, he was gone.
And it was only then that the room felt cold.
I was still trying to solve that puzzle when the sharp squeak of sneakers on marble announced another arrival.
“I need my smoothie,” Mrs. Lyons said without preamble as she swept into the kitchen, still in her pristine white Pilates attire, nary a hair out of place. “Now.”
Whatever spell the brothers had cast over this domain evaporated.
“Of course, Mrs. Lyons.” I was already moving toward the refrigerator, where the smoothie was waiting. Kale, spinach, ginger, egg whites, protein powder, collagen, and a cocktail of supplements—no banana. I’d made it hundreds of times.
She didn’t say please, nor did she say thank you when I set the chilled glass in front of her. She simply picked it up, took a sip, and studied me.
“The baseboards in the guest wing need attention,” she declared as if I were any other member of the housekeeping staff. “See that it’s done today.”
I paused where I was turning off the ice cream maker. “Oh, um, okay. I’ll let housekeeping know?—”
“Just get it done.” She stood, smoothie in hand, and left without so much as a good-bye.
The message was crystal clear.
It didn’t matter who asked me to dinner, who remembered where my family was from, or who called me sweet in the dark hours of the night.
I was the help and nothing more.
And I would do best to remember my place.