Chapter 3
PIP
Two delicious, nose-tingling glasses of Champagne later, the doorbell rings.
"Dinner is served," Snickers quips, adopting an exaggerated English butler accent. With a casual press of a button, the front door swings open.
What happens next is like something out of a dream.
A white-jacketed waiter glides into the penthouse, pushing a polished silver trolley.
At the center of the gleaming setup is a single red rose in a crystal vase.
The scent of something rich and mouthwatering fills the surrounding space. Such a tantalizing aroma, and I have no idea what it is…
But I’m sure excited to find out.
“Good evening, sir,” the waiter says, nodding respectfully at Snickers and acknowledging me with a slight incline of his head.
A moment later, he initiates his meticulous ritual with quiet precision.
I watch in fascination as he deftly unfolds a small round table, ingeniously hidden within his trolley. With a fluid motion, he unfurls a spotless white tablecloth, the fabric cascading smoothly to cover the surface.
He then places gleaming silverware and delicate plates upon it, each item precisely aligned. The plates remind me of the exquisite bone china my aunt proudly displays in her hutch.
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Snickers says, seeming to laugh a little himself as he watches my fascination with this little ceremony.
“Remember those scenes in the old Mary Poppins movie—when she pulled impossibly large items from her bag? This guy reminds me of that.”
Snickers watches me, a quiet smile playing at his lips, as the waiter works with effortless elegance. In moments, he’s transformed the space between us into the illusion of a fine restaurant.
Except we’re not overlooking the city from a fancy dining room, we’re in Snickers’ home, his kingdom in the sky.
“How did you know what I wanted?” I ask as the waiter uncovers the dishes.
Snickers’ eyes glint with mischief. “I took my chances.”
“I’m very particular about food,” I tease. “Particularly about dessert. I’m a hungry girl. And when I’m hungry, I get 'hangry.’”
“A little Pipsqueak like you?”
I give him a quick once-over. “You know what the word means?”
“Hangry? Sure. When you’re a VIP DJ hanging in a crowd of women who’ve starved themselves to fit into their jeans, you get to know the word well.”
I smile but feel a faint sting of jealousy at the mention of other women.
Of course he has other women in his life, I tell myself. He’s an international DJ, for Pete’s sake.
Once the waiter sees himself out, my gaze shifts to a luxurious-looking lobster salad arranged with artistic precision. Next to it is an exquisitely cooked steak, resting beside a small ramekin of delicious-smelling sauce.
Then I see them—the crisp golden fries, glistening under the warm light, their aroma more intoxicating than anything else on the table.
And oddly, the most alluring perfume.
I lean in slightly, inhaling deeply. This is the scent I couldn’t place.
“These fries aren’t simply from potatoes, right?”
“Yes. But they’re truffle fries,” Snickers announces, holding the dish up as if unveiling a masterpiece. “Chef’s specialty.”
“I’ve never tasted one.” My stomach rumbles. “Are they for you, or for me? And speaking of food, who gets dibs on that tantalizing steak?”
“Unless you object, I thought we’d share.”
“In a ‘forks accidentally touch over a plate’ kind of way?” I quip.
Snickers’ gaze drifts over me, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “I love that romantic streak in you. Though I should’ve suspected as much from your dress.”
I smile, inclining my head. This guy has it all.
“But hands off the fries. They’re mine.”
“Oh. Okay.” Until now, Snickers was too good to be true. Handsome. Talented. A fantastic kisser! And the ‘rich’ part didn’t hurt.
But what a creep to order these delectable fries and not share.
“Can I at least taste one?”
Snickers grins and pulls me toward him, making a little show of ruffling up my hair.
“I was just kidding. But fair warning, I’ve been diagnosed with a French fry addiction that’s fierce. Can’t tell you how many friends I’ve arm-wrestled for the last fry.”
With that, he pops one of the fries into his mouth with practiced ease.
I take one for myself, the outer crust crackling between my teeth before the rich, warm flavor bursts across my tongue.
The creamy flesh of the fry has absorbed the rich, earthy essence of the truffle. Its exotic scent lingers in the air, so I inhale that delicious aroma as the flavors dance across my palate.
Snickers laughs.
I’m too overwhelmed with the symphony of aromas and flavors to open my mouth and ask what’s so funny. So I just raise my eyebrows at him.
“You look like you’re having an orgasm or something.”
I hold the white linen napkin to my mouth, hoping I don’t spew fry all over my dress.
“Apologies. I don’t usually orgasm over food.”
Immediately after saying this, I feel my cheeks grow warm. What got into me? Proper Pollyanna is never this bold.
“It’s okay," he says, adopting a mock-serious tone. "It's your first time. Totally understandable."
"Now I understand why you’re so obsessed with truffle fries.”
"And what about you? What's your food obsession?”
He favors me with a serious countenance.
"I already told you. Dessert. Though any form of sugar will do. It's my lifeline."
He chuckles, the sound warm and inviting. "Sugar? Really? That's your grand obsession?"
"It's the only 'food' I truly care about," I say, feigning seriousness before breaking into a smile. "But I have to admit, these truffle fries are giving my sugar addiction a serious challenge. They might just win."
He raises an eyebrow, teasingly skeptical. "Fries versus sugar—a battle for the ages. Don’t girls think sugar’s fattening?”
“Zero calories. For me, at least. And even if it was, I have a high metabolism. I’d burn it off immediately.”
"Do you have any other obsessions I should know about?"
I bite my lower lip as I think about it. "When it was streaming, I did have an obsession with that show filmed in Sicily. White Lotus. As soon as I saw those beaches, those mountains, that incredible hotel, I knew I had to visit."
Snickers’ gaze trails over me, his striking blue eyes lingering on my small curves.
Blushing under the weight of his stare, I take a slow sip of Champagne.
I watch as he lifts a truffle fry to his cupid-shaped lips, heat prickling my skin as I remember how divine those lips tasted just an hour ago.
Why did I sever our delicious connection so abruptly? What was I afraid of?
Snickers promised me a decadent dessert. And I glimpsed the waiter sliding a plate—still hidden beneath a gleaming silver cloche—from his trolley.
Yet, that’s not the tantalizing delicacy I’m craving. Not as my eyes trace the hard lines of Snickers’ arms and the sleek taper of his waist.
The best part of the meal is still to come.