5. The Omelette Test #2
“Come in,” a clipped, cold voice calls, and with my heart pounding, I follow the sound until I step into the kitchen/living room space that must be as wide as my two-story townhouse.
Then I see her.
Mrs. Arnault sits poised on an elegant chaise lounge, one leg crossed over the other, a crystal glass resting between her manicured fingers.
She’s older—mid-fifties, maybe—but the kind of woman who’s only grown more striking with time. Her cheekbones are sharp and her jawline defined, her skin smooth with just the faintest traces of age around her piercing brown eyes. They flick over me with calculated interest. Assessing, measuring.
“You’re not Amelie,” she says.
I blink. “No, ma’am. I’m?—”
She smooths her silver hair with one hand. “I expected Amelie.”
“Amelie’s out of town for the next month. She?—”
“Where?”
“Mayfield. She’s working a temporary gig. And...and besides, she doesn’t work for Chef otherwise, she would have given me instructions before I started.
But Mrs. Arnault has met her match, because I’d sooner spend thirty-six hours making this omelette than raise my voice at her. Or rightfully tell her to go fuck herself.
I’m not going to disappoint Ian and Amelie. And I’m definitely not quitting on my first client.
I grab two more eggs. Crack. Whisk. Mushrooms, chives. This will be the shittiest omelette ever, but there’s only so much I can do with these ingredients.
I move a pan to the stove, flick on the burner. I reach for the butter, then turn to her. She’s glaring at it so hard it’s already melting, so I set it away. I add a bit of oil, then pour the mixture into the heated pan.
The omelette comes together—fluffy, delicate. I take the spatula and gently flip it. If I’m being honest, I’m impressed I managed to make something halfway decent under such a rigid microscope.
I slide it onto a plate and turn to her, trying not to look too hopeful.
She eyes it for a long moment, then picks up her fork and takes the tiniest bite. I hold my breath, but her face doesn’t give anything away.
She chews, swallows, then puts the fork down.
“Here’s your copy of the keys.” She holds out a small envelope. “Inside, you’ll also find my phone number, my daughter’s phone number, and Katia’s—that’s the maid. Our schedule is also in there, so you can prepare the correct portions.”
“Uh-huh.” She must be pleased. I’ve made it through the first hurdle, and I get to tackle the second one. “Sure, yes.”
“Come and go however you please during the day, but I expect you here to serve lunch and dinner. Noon and five o’clock. Bring the ingredients with you, take leftovers when you go. Nothing should be left in the fridge.”
“O-okay.” It’s...weird, but great, honestly. My mom would have watched Sadie regardless, but with this schedule I’ll be able to have dinner with my daughter every night.
“And one more thing.” A powerful glare. “In this house, we eat no more than twelve hundred calories per day. I expect you to respect that.”
One thousand two hundred calories. For an entire day. For a grown woman . I school my expression, but internally, I’m screaming. That’s barely enough for a sedentary teenager, let alone a woman who—presumably—functions in society.
Mrs. Arnault taps a manicured nail against the island. “That includes breakfast, lunch, dinner. There shouldn’t be any indulgences in between meals.” It sounds like a warning. “Understood?”
I nod, gripping the envelope. “Crystal clear.”
She points toward the archway. “Down the hall—first door’s a bathroom, second is my daughter’s room, and straight ahead, there’s another bathroom.” She pauses for a breath. “Around the corner is my area. Home office, bedroom, the works. And if you’ve made it that far, you’ve gone too far.”
“All I need is here,” I reassure her, gesturing at the kitchen.
“Wonderful. My daughter isn’t home, so you’ll meet her next week. She struggles with her weight, so you’re going to follow my instructions and ignore hers.” Her worried gaze runs over me. “She can be quite...persuasive.”
Oh, well, that makes me feel better. I’m not just denying food to a client who doesn’t want it; I’m also keeping it from her overweight child.
Does her kid even want to lose weight?
Does this woman understand that a hypocaloric diet doesn’t need to mean food deprivation?
“Is there a problem?”
I wear my most disingenuous smile. “None. Twelve hundred calories a day, no bribes accepted.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but a sound at the front entrance steals her attention. “Looks like you’ll get to meet her tonight.”
Someone—I assume it’s her daughter, walks past the kitchen. I don’t see much of her, but it’s enough to know I’ve grossly misunderstood her, because that woman is thin . Probably thinner than she should be. And she’s not a child.
“Charlotte?”
“What?” she says flatly from the corridor.
“Can you come in here, please?”
There’s a mumbled curse and some shuffling, then she enters the kitchen.
Instinctively, I take a step back, knocking into the counter. I brace myself on it as if it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Because holy shit .
Charlotte—Mrs. Arnault’s daughter—is Cherry.
As in Cherry , the cam girl. Cherry, with the sharp green eyes, the sultry voice, the way-too-intense stare that made it feel like she was looking right at me through the screen.
No way. No fucking way.
She crosses her arms, her weight shifting to one hip as she studies me with mild interest. A fitted black top clings to her frame and exposes one of her toned shoulders.
With it, she wears a high-waisted denim skirt, fitted through the hips and flaring slightly toward the hem, almost brushing the marble floor.
A slit in the front offers a glimpse of the tall, black leather boots at her feet, and there’s a black belt cinching her waist, a subtle gold buckle catching the light.
She looks different than the dreamy, sexy woman in the pink nightgown.
For a moment, I almost expect a flicker of recognition in her gaze, but then I realize...she’s never seen me. She doesn’t know who I am.
I feel like I’ve been dunked in ice water.
“Well?” Charlotte says, tapping her foot on the floor. Her voice—it’s different now. Less of that smooth, practiced purr from her streams and more...dry, unimpressed.
“This is Chef Coleman,” Mrs. Arnault says. “He’ll be working for us.”
Crap! I gave her the name Cole . What if she figures it out?
I fucking came in my hand in her presence. Then I burst out crying and continued for a good fifteen minutes. Don’t get me wrong, it was the most liberating cry of my life—and the most expensive one too—but I don’t need to relive the humiliation.
Charlotte’s expression doesn’t change as her lips press together slightly, like she’s biting back a reaction. Then, she sniffs. “Great. Hope you love making salads, Chef .”
“Chef Coleman is a professional,” her mother says smoothly. “He knows exactly what you need.”
What do you need?
You’re so pretty when you come.
I hook a finger in the collar of my shirt, desperate to loosen it.
Her voice has been haunting me for a week.
It echoes through my thoughts when I open my eyes in the morning.
I hear it before I fall asleep, in the silence, and when there’s chaos around me.
Her voice whispers to me in the shower as I fist my cock.
What if she recognizes my voice?
Charlotte’s eyes flick back to me. “That so?”
I still haven’t said a word, and I’m probably looking like a clueless idiot. This is so much worse than just cooking for some overbearing, calorie-obsessed socialite. Her daughter, fourteen years younger than me, was sprawled on silk sheets a week ago, moaning my name through a screen.
I clear my throat, gripping the envelope tighter. “Yeah. That...that’s so.”
She remains motionless, save for the barest hint of amusement in her expression. I think she’d look more shocked than this if she recognized me—she must talk to dozens of people every day after all.
“Well then. I guess you’re perfect for the job.” She takes a step closer, eyes still set on mine as one corner of her lips curl up, then purrs, “Almost...Cherry-picked, huh?”