6. Pasta Problems
Pasta Problems
D ay one and I already wish I could go back in time and tell Ian he should assign this job to Robbie.
I probably should have. Hell, I spent the last week contemplating my resignation.
It’s not my fault the cam girl I contacted after he roped me into trying TOP ended up being the daughter of my first client.
But she’s fourteen years younger than me. Fourteen . That fact alone makes what happened between us so beyond inappropriate that I couldn’t bear to witness his reaction. Amelie’s reaction.
Plus, I didn’t know what he’d say to Mrs. Arnault. What if he told her about Charlotte being on TOP? I seriously doubt her mom knows about her side-gig.
But now that I’m standing outside of the apartment complex, I wonder...What if it were my daughter? I’d like to know, wouldn’t I?
I’m a fucking father. Maybe that’s where my loyalties should lie.
And she must have worked out who I am. That comment— cherry-picked —couldn’t have been by chance. At the very least, she’s aware that I know she moonlights as Cherry. And what is someone that rich doing on a platform like TOP anyway?
I’ll just have to ignore her. I need to keep this job, prove myself. I’ll cook. Be in, be out. That simple.
With a headache forming in my temples, I enter the hall and walk by the glaring usher.
Inside the elevator, I catch my reflection, looking into my hazel eyes as I tuck back a few loose strands of hair and give myself an encouraging nod.
This’ll be fine. According to the schedule, neither Charlotte nor her mom will be home for another hour, so I’ll have time to get settled.
To cook without that harpy watching over my shoulder.
The elevator dings and the second I step onto the penthouse floor, I tense. Music. Definitely not the type of music I expect Mrs. Arnault to listen to—some type of rap on a techno base that immediately makes my lips twitch.
I open the door and enter the foyer, and through the gap that leads into the living room, I see women. Several women—all of whom wearing next to no clothes. They’re all in shorts or bikinis, walking around the living room with red drinks in their hands. Chatting, laughing.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
I take a step back, suddenly awkward. My first thought is to call Amelie, but to say what?
It feels awfully close to clinging to Mommy’s skirt on the first day of school.
And all Beatrice said is that I’m not supposed to feed her daughter more than one thousand two hundred calories a day.
If she’s drinking and partying when she’s not even supposed to be home, it’s none of my business. She’s an adult.
“I knew I heard something.”
I look up, meeting a woman’s gaze. She’s Black, with tight curls cascading down her shoulders. She’s wearing a light-blue bikini and a bright smile that I immediately try to reciprocate. “H-hello, I’m...”
“Who is it, Bonnie?” Charlotte joins her friend, eyes running over me. “Oh, it’s our new chef.”
“You have a private chef ?” Bonnie tsks. “Seriously, you won the life lottery, Char.”
I swallow, uncomfortable under their scrutiny.
I refuse to let my eyes dip past Charlotte’s neck, but even from my periphery, she’s impossible to ignore.
The shorts she’s wearing cut so high on her thighs they might as well be lingerie, the frayed edges teasing at her skin, drawing attention to the dip where her waist curves in.
And then there’s the top. Blood-red silk, with thin straps holding it up precariously over her shoulders. It hangs loose in all the right places, draping over her breasts just enough to suggest more than it hides. Like it has a mind of its own, like it’s begging for attention.
And those freckles everywhere.
“Yeah. Lucky me,” Charlotte says unconvincingly before plastering a smirk on her face. “He’s pretty too, isn’t he? Look at that thick brown hair.”
Bonnie hums. “Messy in a hot way.”
“And those long lashes? Those hazelnut eyes?”
Bonnie crosses her arms. “I love tall, strong men with a little beard.”
They both stare at me, which I take to assume they expect an answer.
Ignoring the sweat dampening my back, I mumble, “Thank you. You’re both.
..beautiful.” What the fuck, Aaron? “Not—not beautiful ,” I say, bringing a hand to the back of my neck.
“I mean, you are , but not in a weird, uh...” I blow out a sharp breath.
“Okay. I don’t think I’m supposed to say any of that, so I won’t. But thank you.”
Bonnie turns to Charlotte, who, with a tilt of her head, studies me thoughtfully. “Really pretty.”
“Thank you.”
Stop thanking her!
“Give us a second?” Charlotte says, turning to Bonnie. With a long, meaningful look, her friend walks away.
Shit.
Teeth sinking into her plump lip, Charlotte waits a moment before she says, “You look nervous, Chef.”
She steps forward and I stumble back, hitting the door I just shut behind me. Noticing, she stops and chuckles. “Wow. You are nervous.”
“First day,” I stutter.
“Uh-huh.” She walks forward slowly, as if afraid I’ll bolt, which I just might. When she’s in front of me, chin lifted slightly to look into my eyes, she says, “I think the two of us need to have a talk, don’t we?”
Christ, that voice.
What do you need?
You sound so pretty when you come.
I press my eyes closed for a moment, conjuring the thought away. “Not—not really. I’m just here to cook. Cook and clean, then leave. That’s it.”
“Except that’s not it,” she insists. “We’ve met on TOP.”
A trickle of sweat runs down my temple.
“Don’t deny it, Chef. I know that look. And besides, I don’t mind. In fact, I love it. Thank you for your business.”
I open my mouth only to quickly close it. Her voice is back to that same sultry tone she uses on TOP.
“Did we ever have the pleasure of getting on a call, just you and me?”
“Um...” She doesn’t know who I am. Has no clue that I’m the guy she’s probably been referring to as the Weepy Wanker. Thank god . “N-no. Just a regular, public live,” I lie.
She clicks her tongue, fingers reaching for the top button of my shirt. “Too bad. Maybe we should, huh? I could give you a promo code.” She worries at her bottom lip suggestively, flirty olive-green eyes scouring mine. “We could spend some time together. On the house.”
This is madness. Madness , and I need it to stop right now.
I reach for her hand, wanting to gently move it away from me, then drop my arm down my side before I can touch her. Touching her isn’t a good idea.
“I appreciate the offer, really?—”
“Of course, it’d have to stay between the two of us,” she interrupts, tracing a finger down my chest. Shivers rain down my spine, raising the hairs on my arms. “If Beatrice knew about my side-gig, I’d have to leave the platform.”
She calls her mom by her first name?
With an exaggerated pout, she adds, “And we wouldn’t get to hang out anymore.”
Oh. Oh . Of course. She’s scared I’ll tell her mom. That’s why she’s... flirting with me. I doubted whether this could get more inappropriate, yet here we are. She’s trying to buy my silence.
“Look...” I glance at the living room, making sure no one’s around. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. So there’s nothing I could tell your mother.” I say the next word slowly. “All right, Cherry ?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes. Positive.”
She holds my gaze for a moment longer. “Okay.” Her hand grazes the back of mine, gently tugging at my wedding band. “’Cause I’d hate for your wife to find out what you do in your free time. Wouldn’t you?”
My hand clenches in a fist as she walks away, and the second she disappears into the living room, I let out a heavy exhale.
I didn’t even make it into the kitchen before being blackmailed.
Wiping my forehead, I enter the open space.
The women—four in total—are tall, leggy, and radiant, their bodies sculpted to perfection—the kind of women you see gracing billboards or magazine covers.
Two of them, Bonnie and a brunette in a pink bikini, are out on the terrace, lounging on sunbeds, and their laughter carries over the music that’s blaring from the living room speakers.
Charlotte struts toward them, and with her freckled skin, the sunlight catching in her hair, the sway of her hips—she moves like she owns the world. For all I know, maybe she does.
The last woman, a blonde with icy blue eyes, is curled up on the couch, engrossed in her phone. She’s wearing a white bikini that contrasts against her tan, and her legs, long and toned, stretch out lazily.
I clear my throat, trying to focus on the task at hand. The counter in front of me is littered with empty glasses, some crumbs, a half-drunk pitcher of something vibrant and fruity.
Not my problem.
I’m not supposed to feed Mrs. Arnault’s daughter more than 1,200 calories a day.
If she gets extras elsewhere...well, quite frankly, good for her.
I’m here to cook, and that’s all I’ll do.
But as I gather the ingredients for the meal, I can’t help but overhear bits of their conversation—stories about wild parties, the places they’ve traveled, the men they’ve met.
Who are these people? Seriously, I need to google this family.
The blonde on the couch looks up, her eyes landing on me for a brief second. Uninterested, she turns back at her phone.
I follow her example and focus on the eggs, cracking them into a mound of flour on the counter. Today’s menu includes a fresh seafood pasta, tossed with a lemon-basil sauce. I’m using my fingers to mix the eggs in, the dough forming as I work it together, when Charlotte’s voice carries over.
“Peter. Again,” she says, holding her phone up with a bored expression.
“You have to go out with him, Charlotte. Are you kidding? A photographer like him?”