6. Pasta Problems #2
I eye them while I knead the dough, pressing the heel of my palm into it, stretching and folding until it’s smooth and elastic, and catch Charlotte rolling her eyes as she takes a sip of her drink.
“He’s such a douche,” she whines.
Bonnie hums. “But he’s got a Ferrari.”
The brunette holds up a finger. “A Maserati.”
Bonnie rolls her eyes. “Who cares? The point is he’ll probably take you to Paris on his private jet.”
“And book you for anything you wanted.”
Dragging my eyes away, I focus on the task.
Book her? I seriously need to find out more about these people.
“For some pussy, Peter will probably give me his private jet,” Charlotte deadpans, causing the other two to burst into laughter.
I should mind my business, but I can’t look away as Charlotte tilts her glass back and empties it in two sips. I zero in on the curve of her neck, the parting of her lips after she swallows, and I have every impure thought that’s ever occurred to man.
“Hey, Charlotte,” the blonde woman says from the couch. I find her gaze on me and quickly turn to the dough, smoothing my palm over it before wrapping it in plastic to rest. “It looks like your cook wants some pussy too.”
Her voice is sharp and mocking, like she’s daring me to react, making no effort to hide her disdain. Though I feel heat rise up my cheeks, I refuse to acknowledge her.
“Maybe he’s fantasizing about touching someone important for once,” Bonnie adds.
The brunette snorts. “You sure you can handle all this, Chef? You look a little out of your depth here.”
I hate myself for the way my cheeks flare up. They’re fucking kids. Pretty, spoiled twenty-something-year-olds trying to get a kick out of humiliating someone for working .
It’s not worth getting flustered about.
“Hey, maybe you could keep him as your sidepiece,” Bonnie insists. “Men who can’t afford you try much harder in bed.”
They all giggle, and in the silence that follows, I meet Charlotte’s gaze.
She hesitates for a moment, drink halfway lifted to her mouth. Then with a shrug, she turns away. “Afraid he’s going to have to keep dreaming. I don’t fuck the help .”
My eyes don’t stray from the counter. I keep my hands busy—kneading the last bit of pasta dough until it’s smooth, dusting the surface with flour, rolling and cutting it into delicate ribbons.
Then it’s the sauce’s turn—a drizzle of olive oil, fragrant garlic sizzling until golden, white wine to deglaze the pan.
Fresh basil, a whisper of lemon zest, and the seafood goes in last.
For forty-five minutes, I listen to their frivolous chatter without a peep.
My head doesn’t lift when the girls check the time and decide to leave before Beatrice arrives.
Not when they move past me in a cloud of perfume and giggles.
Not even when Charlotte lingers, coming back alone to gather their glasses and set them in the sink with a muted clink .
I’m not offended, of course. A twenty-three-year-old calling me the help like I should be ashamed of having an honest-to- god job reflects worse on her. But the implication that I want Charlotte? That sticks. That needles under my skin in a way I can’t shake.
Because she knows it’s true.
I wouldn’t have ended up on her page if it wasn’t.
“It’s too much food.”
Charlotte’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts. I flinch, glancing behind me at the sink where she’s rinsing the glasses.
“It’s about two ounces of pasta each.”
She nods. “Too much food.”
I glance down at the pan, at the child-sized portion of pasta cooling in the sauce. My jaw clenches. When I turn back to her, she’s still at the sink, scrubbing away any evidence of her friends’ presence.
“Sorry. About what I said.”
“Huh?” I frown. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not fine .” She sets a glass down. “I want those girls to like me so much I don’t even bother to question whether I like myself when I’m with them.” A humorless chuckle escapes her. “Trust me, I don’t judge people based on their money or their job.”
I watch her for a moment, her delicate hands wiping down the counter, then flick the burner off.
“I mean it,” she says with a slight shrug. “I’m a whore after all.”
I freeze, my grip tightening on the handle of the pan.
“That’s not true.” The words tumble out instinctively, my throat tightening around them. “You’re not a whore.”
“Sure I am.” Charlotte wipes a glass, her movements steady. She sets it on the counter then lifts her chin, meeting my eyes. “I take my clothes off for money. I make men orgasm, do whatever they ask me to. I’m not ashamed of it.”
Silence stretches between us.
“At least I make my own money. Like you.” She nods toward the hallway. “Those girls? Daughters of rich people. They’ll never get it.”
So that’s why she moonlights on TOP. She wants her own money. “Is that what you want to do for the rest of your life?”
Her glare is murderous. “Is cooking for my mom what you want to do for the rest of your life?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t mean?—”
“No, no.” She lifts a hand, mockingly polite. “Please, I insist, save me from this terrible cycle of prostitution I’m stuck in.” Her eyes harden as she grabs the glasses and shoves them back into the cabinet.
“That’s not what I meant,” I reaffirm. “I just...”
One of her brows arches, daring me to continue.
“I saw the art equipment in your room.”
“You did?” Her eyes narrow. “I hardly move my camera around during lives.”
Shit, shit, shit.
She seems to shake the thought away with a shrug. “Well, it’s a hobby.” Her lips purse. “You know...things you do because they’re fun?”
“Got it.” She wipes the counter once more, ensuring not a single crumb remains, while I dish the pasta onto the plates, glancing at her for approval. She assesses the portions, then reluctantly nods.
That has to be . . . three ounces for two people.
It’s despicable.
I shouldn’t push. I shouldn’t care. But for some reason, I do.
“Why do you want to be friends with those girls?” I shrug. “I mean, if you don’t like them.”
“Because,” she says as she drops the cloth on the counter, “when you’re starving, even poison is better than nothing.”
The words settle like a stone in my chest, cold and sharp. She’s not just talking about food, I know that. The way she says it, like she’s too used to taking whatever scraps are left and pretending they’re enough, makes my heart clench.
What the hell is going on in this household?
Before I can dig for answers, the door swings open and Beatrice breezes in, barely lifting her gaze off her phone. She sheds her coat in one fluid motion, tossing it over the back of the couch along with her bag. “Lunch should be ready.”
“It is.” I set the plates on the table, forcing my expression into something neutral.
Her sharp gaze flicks to the food, assessing it with the precision of someone who measures worth in calories. Straightening her white blouse, she nods once before turning to her daughter. “Charlotte. Time to eat.”
She moves toward the counter, but stops suddenly. Her eyes narrow.
“What—” Her voice is clipped, suspicious, as she peers at something near the fruit bowl.
A crumb.
A fucking crumb.
Charlotte’s entire body stiffens.
“What is that?” When Charlotte doesn’t say a word, Beatrice strikes her with a glare. “I asked you a question.”
I turn my back on them, heart racing.
“How am I supposed to know? I don’t cook.”
“Chef Coleman?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I twist, pan in hand. “Yes?”
“Was Charlotte eating something when you got here?”
I flick my gaze to Charlotte. She’s standing there with her arms crossed, but her eyes—her eyes are screaming at me.
Lie.
I glance back at Beatrice. “Excuse me?”
“My daughter,” she says sharply. “What was she doing when you came in?”
My gut twists. I’m a father—I should take the mother’s side. But this? This woman is starving her child, picking apart every single morsel of food she eats like it’s a crime. And Charlotte—she’s obviously terrified of her.
But what if she finds out anyway?
I can’t be fired.
I can’t be fired.
“Answer my question, Chef.” Beatrice’s voice sharpens. “The food’s getting cold.”
I inhale deeply. “She was on her phone, and I didn’t see her eat anything. The crumb must be from the pasta dough.”
She steps closer—maybe to taste the crumb to see if I’m lying?—and I casually wipe it away with my cloth, then meet her infuriated gaze. “It won’t happen again.”
Beatrice must be happy with my response, because she pulls out a chair and sits at the table. I watch Charlotte out of the corner of my eye as she joins her mother, a mix of gratitude and amusement playing on her features. Then she lifts her fork and takes a bite. Her lashes flutter.
She likes it.
She likes my food.
When she looks at me again, there’s something in her gaze that feels just for me.
Like a window cracked open after years of stale air.