13. Sorbetto #2
“Show-off.” Robbie grinned. “Okay, most days he wants lunch at noon. He won’t touch what the meetings serve, so you’ll pack it ahead, along with a protein-rich afternoon snack, except for Thursday, when he’ll be eating at Ruiva.
Dinner’s at seven sharp, served here. Salad, main, and a small dessert except for Saturday. That’s his cheat day, so go all out.”
“Wine? Drinks?” At home, Lucas typically drank whatever Ondine paired with her menu, but that was almost always chosen by Winnifred. I didn’t know what his personal preferences were when he was alone.
Robbie shook his head. “Non-alcoholic only. I don’t know why, but he wants the trip dry.”
Huh. Odd.
I leaned against the counter, arms still crossed. “Any other specifics? Typically, Winnifred goes through the menu at home with Ondine every week to be sure it contains what she wants.”
Robbie grinned as if I’d asked a trick question. “He’s paying you to know that for him, babe.”
Right. Of course he was.
Robbie handed me a keycard, sleek and black. “This’ll get you in and out of the building and the suite. Elevator code is 1021.”
I smirked. “That’s easy to remember. It’s my birthday.”
“Farmer’s markets, errands, whatever you need, just call down to the concierge, and Fabiano will be there.”
I looked around the penthouse. The skyline shimmered past the floor-to-ceiling windows like it had no idea how weird my life had just become. Waiting for me to venture into it, alone, and get very, very lost.
Fear pricked the back of my neck.
I turned back to Robbie. “I do need to go to a market. Tomorrow. Would you be willing to come with me? For, um, help carrying things?”
A feeble excuse if there was one, but Robbie had the decency not to comment on it. “Sure. You should have enough things for the morning, but we can go after his main breakfast.”
He left me to explore the kitchen on my own and process exactly how I’d gone from a disappointing date with Daniel to standing on the other side of the world in less than twenty-four hours.
Ondine had done brief trips like this with Lucas, but nothing on this scale, and she hadn’t told me how disorienting it was.
It felt as if I’d slipped into someone else’s life without warning.
I wandered around the kitchen, running my fingers along the pristine countertops and opening and closing drawers.
In one, I found my own knives— my knives, the ones I’d taken with me to Paris and back, including the Japanese gyuto my brother-in-law sent me when I graduated—laid out like ladies’ necklaces.
The other equipment was indeed top-of-the-line.
Far better than what we had at Prideview, which was saying something.
I opened the refrigerator to find it stocked with the basics: premium proteins, fresh produce, imported dairy. Ondine had sent the list of ingredients ahead of our arrival. Ingredients I would be expected to know off the top of my head in a matter of months.
No time like the present to learn.
My mind drifted to Lucas. Where was he now? A late-night reception, Robbie said, which meant that Lucas was in a suit, maybe even his tux again, looking far too much like James Bond for my comfort level.
My thighs squeezed together as I remembered the exact cut of that jacket, the way it pulled across his shoulders when he held me for a dance. The hints of leather and ink with his indelibly masculine scent.
Did he remember that night too?
Probably not. It was a mistake, like we said.
Sweet Marie .
It still echoed through my mind like a song.
No. That was definitely not why I was here. I was a professional, hired to cook, and that was exactly what I would do.
The next morning, after Lucas blazed through the kitchen at five and again at eight, barely saying hello while I was still prepping for lunch, I texted Robbie.
Ready for that market trip whenever you are.
His response came immediately.
Downstairs in 10.
I changed into something more appropriate for the Brazilian heat—my favorite flowy black pants and a halter top that made me feel like a fifties pin-up star—and headed down to the lobby.
The market was a riot of color and noise, so different from the sterile perfection of the penthouse. Stalls overflowed with exotic fruits, fresh-caught seafood, and spices that perfumed the air.
Despite the fear that had been nipping at me like a terrier since arriving last night, I felt more at ease. Food was a language everyone spoke. “Damn, that’s good” sounds the same whether you’re speaking English, French, or Portuguese. So does “ew, gross!”, “eh, it’s all right”, or “more please.”
I could do this. I could manage my way through this place even if I didn’t know a lick of Portuguese.
As I shopped, Robbie trailed behind me, occasionally offering translations via his phone but mostly letting me explore.
“Look at this.” I held up a plump red fruit with an oblong shape. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to try some of these.”
“What the heck is that?” he asked. “Some kind of pepper?”
“No, it’s a caju . Cashew fruit.”
He looked dubious. “What do you do with it?”
“Juice it. Supposedly, it has four times the vitamin C of orange juice.” I held it up. “Yeah, we’re making some sorbetto with these bad boys.” I nodded to the vendor and gestured that I wanted to fill a bag with the caju fruits.
While Robbie paid, I was distracted by a stall selling fresh fish.
“Don’t get any of the abalone,” Robbie called. “Shellfish allergy, remember?”
I nodded. “That’s right. He got anaphylaxis when he was six, eating clams in Maine.”
Robbie looked surprised. “That’s something I should know.”
“We’ve been sharing these stories in the kitchen for ten years. I bet I remember things about Lucas that he doesn’t even know about himself anymore.”
We meandered through the rest of the market, where I selected some local plantains and palm hearts for a variation of mofongo , and picked up some passionfruit and a grape-like fruit called jabuticaba that I wanted to experiment with poached.
“What’s this?” I asked a woman as I looked into a barrel full of a yellowish dried grain.
“ Farofa .” She continued rapidly in Portuguese, followed by some theater-level miming that made it clear it was meant to be cooked and was very delicious.
I picked up the scoop and allowed the grain to fall down from it like rain into the barrel. “Farofa, huh? Well, all right. We’ll give it a try.”
At least this way, I could be a little adventurous.
But then again, food never talked back, did it?
I spent the rest of the day happily getting to know my new kitchen, planning the rest of the meals for our time in S?o Paulo, and prepping any ingredients that would need days to set or culture.
Tonight’s dinner would be relatively simple: steak with a few vegetable sides, elevated with sauces combining French and Brazilian techniques.
Lucas loved a good steak, too, I recalled. Winnifred was always trying to get the family to eat something other than red meat since Mr. Lyons had cholesterol issues. But on the few occasions Ondine and I prepared meals for Lucas alone, he’d always requested the perfect steak.
At precisely seven, I plated the dinner, setting it on the sleek dining table just as the private elevator doors chimed open at 7:10 p.m.
Lucas entered, still in his suit, though he’d loosened his tie.
Today’s was a dark blue that matched his eyes.
He looked tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from high-stakes decision-making for far too long and not enough sleep.
For a moment, he seemed surprised to see me standing there, as if he’d forgotten I’d come along.
“Marie.” His voice was formal, but slightly gruff. “Ah, hello. Good—good evening.”
I offered a smile and touched a hand nervously to the silk scarf covering my hair. “Welcome back. Your dinner’s ready.” I gestured to the table.
He studied me a moment more before dragging his eyes to the table, where he then sat down.
I walked back toward the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
I turned at the door. “I—well?—”
“Stay.”
I frowned, looking at the empty spaces.
“You have your meal, right?”
He wasn’t wrong. Part of the deal of being live-in chefs was that Ondine and I ate whatever we prepared for the family, or at least a simplified version.
There was indeed a plate just like Lucas’s waiting for me on the kitchen counter.
I’d been looking forward to it for the last two hours while I worked.
“Then, please. Go get it.” Lucas turned to his food. “I’ll wait.”
It wasn’t a request.
I retrieved my plate, then set it down along with the simple cutlery to Lucas’s left. From this position, we’d both have a view of the infinity pool and the city beyond. Cautiously, I took the seat, feeling out of place. A table like this demanded cocktail attire, not chef’s whites.
Lucas removed his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his chair before sitting. He studied his plate with the careful attention he seemed to give all things in his life. “This is interesting.” He cut into the beef. “Local?”
“Yes.” I watched as he took the first bite.
“Fresh greens with local cheese. Farofa-crusted filet with cachaca and passionfruit reduction, paired with caramelized palm hearts and a caju-lime mocktail. Robbie and I went to the market. I experimented with a new recipe, inspired by a classic au poivre .”
Lucas chewed thoughtfully, his expression giving nothing away.
Suddenly, I was nervous. I wasn’t new to cooking for the Lyonses, of course. But it occurred to me that this was the first meal I’d prepared on my own for any of them without Ondine’s help or input. And it was for the most exacting family member who was in charge of everything.
Those storm cloud eyes met mine, glimmering with a hint of warmth. “It’s excellent.”
Relief flooded through me. “Thank you.”