7. Preheat the Drama
Preheat the Drama
E verything is clean and in order, and my first day is officially over.
It seems that Beatrice appreciated lunch and dinner—braised lamb shanks slow-cooked until tender and served over creamy-sans-the-cream mashed potatoes, with roasted carrots glazed in honey and thyme.
She made a polite comment about the flavors, nothing overly enthusiastic but enough to let me know she enjoyed it.
Charlotte, on the other hand, barely said a word.
She picked at her plate, eating in small bites.
When dinner was over, the women went their separate ways. At some point while I was cleaning, I heard the front door open and close, but I have no idea who left.
I glance around the kitchen for the millionth time, making sure everything is back in its place and spotless. Satisfied, I grab my bag and head for the door.
Who would’ve expected this job to be so emotionally taxing?
It should be simple—cook, clean up, get paid. But something about this house, about the way Beatrice and Charlotte barely interact, how meals feel more like obligations than moments to enjoy—it’s all very unsettling.
And then there’s Charlotte.
Gorgeous, mysterious Charlotte who I should stop thinking about.
I take the stairs down, figuring I could use the workout. The usher at the front gives me his usual glare as I pass and I nod at him, adjusting my grip on my bag, then stepping outside.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I open my texts and tap on Amelie’s name.
Aaron
Tell your husband dinner went by smoothly. I’m off.
Amelie
Congratulations on a successful first day.
Aaron
How was yours?
Amelie
The producer asked me to “raise my voice if I feel the need to.”
Aaron
Did you?
Amelie
Please. By the end of this, the Preston name will no longer be associated with culinary dictatorship. Maybe puppies and rainbows.
Aaron
Good for you. Say hi to Ian.
“Texting your wife?”
I look up, and there she is—Charlotte, perched on the steps, knees pulled to her chest, a cigarette dangling lazily between her fingers. A faint ember burns at the tip as she takes a drag, and the the late afternoon sun casts a warm, honeyed light across the curl of her lips.
So she’s the one who left the house.
“I...” I clear my throat, slipping my phone into my pocket. How come whenever she’s around I’m tenser than I’ve ever been? “A friend, actually.”
“Those are nice too,” she says, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the sun-warmed air. Her gaze flicks over me before she adds, “Dinner was delicious.”
“Yeah?” I step closer, curious. “You didn’t eat all of it.”
She shrugs, taking another drag. “I get extra points when I don’t finish my meals, and I need extra points for this Friday.”
I frown. “Extra points?”
“For a concert I want Beatrice to let me go to.”
Excuse the fuck out of me?
I watch her, unable to disguise my shock but not knowing what to say. I should probably keep my mouth shut, but the way she said it—so casual, like it’s normal to starve oneself for rewards—has my stomach clenching hard.
“You and your mom, you...” I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “You eat very little.”
“Uh-huh.”
I wait, expecting her to elaborate. She doesn’t.
“Any specific . . . reason for that?”
She bursts into laughter, her head tipping back slightly. There are butterflies in my stomach at the light, airy sound. “I have a show soon.”
I tilt my head in a silent question.
“I’m a model. Beatrice is my mom and my agent.”
“Oh.” Of course. With that body, I should have figured.
Those girls from today must be models too.
Is that why she calls her mom by her first name?
Because they work together? Hell, maybe it’s just because Beatrice is utterly despicable and she needs to distance herself from the woman. “When—when’s the show?”
She chuckles again, bringing the cigarette to her lips and inhaling. “Saturday.”
Jesus . That’s five days away. Maybe I can ask what her favorite meal is and cook it for her on Monday, like a little celebration.
“Of course, there’s a shoot next week,” she adds.
I frown. “There is?”
“And the week after that.”
She must be popular, then. Maybe even famous, if she books that many shows. How does that work with her being on TOP? She has tens of thousands of followers on there. “Aren’t you...worried?”
“Like in life? Not really,” she says with a playful smirk.
“About someone figuring out who you are,” I clarify. “Would the people you model for be okay with you camming?”
“Oh, absolutely not.” She blows out smoke. “It’s only a matter of time before one of my viewers rats me out. My days are numbered.”
I expect her to say more, but she just shrugs, unbothered.
“What do I have to lose?” She taps her cigarette, watching the ash fall in a drift. “I’ll celebrate unemployment with a cheeseburger.”
My jaw tightens as I glance back at the building. “It’s not healthy to eat twelve hundred calories a day. You’re still young. Developing. Your body needs?—”
“Oh, I have lots of needs , Chef.”
She pulls her shoulders inwardly as if to highlight her cleavage, and my jaw locks. She’s so sexy— no, Aaron. Focus. She’s deflecting .
“I’m serious.”
Dropping the act, she says, “Fine, you look like a big turkey leg to me right now. Happy? But I’m still not the one in charge, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Yeah, I have noticed. Unfortunately, I doubt Beatrice wants my input on her daughter’s diet.
“I could give you more food,” I say, before I can think better of it. The second she looks back at me, I know I said the one thing I shouldn’t have. “Secretly.”
Bad, bad move.
Okay, there are worse things I could have said. Things I thought of many times since that night on our call—like how I’d love to feed her something other than food. But Beatrice gave me one rule, and I just broke it. Although “Don’t fantasize about my daughter” was probably implied.
“Beatrice would kill you.”
“She’d have to find out first.”
Her head angles back, like she’s wondering why the hell I’d put myself in that position. For a second, I wonder the same thing. But the answer is simple: I want to keep my job, but not more than I think Charlotte a right to basic nutrition.
“She’d find out once she weighs me,” she says.
“Once she . . .” I trail off, blinking.
She stands, stubbing out her cigarette against the step. When she walks closer, eyes sweeping over me, I catch a hint of perfume beneath the stale scent of smoke—something floral and subtle.
“You’re new here,” she says, almost like it’s an explanation. Then, after a beat, she pulls at the sleeve of her sweater. “But...thanks for earlier. For covering for me.”
She walks up the steps, leaving me standing there, hands clenched into fists.
“Hey, Chef?”
She’s paused in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame.
Sunlight spills in behind her, casting a soft glow along the curve of her hip and lighting up the sharp angles of her collarbone where her sweater slips wide at the neck.
Her head is tilted slightly, eyes locked onto mine like she’s daring me to look away first.
“I’ll be online tonight.”
Heat coils in my chest, rising to my face, and I swallow thickly. “Yeah?”
My voice comes out rougher than I intend, like the single syllable got caught in my throat on the way out.
Charlotte hums in confirmation. “Will you?”
My mouth opens, but my brain refuses to cooperate.
Does she . . . want me to be online?
It can’t be about the money, right? She must have plenty of other dudes who’d love to watch her get naked for them.
Guys who probably send tips just for the chance to hear their name from her lips, who flood her chat with requests, who would kill for even a fraction of the attention she’s giving me right now.
And yet, here she is.
Asking me .
It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because there’s no possible version of this where I say yes.
I shift my weight and glance toward the street, willing for something to save me. “I don’t think so.” I point vaguely at the building behind her. “It wouldn’t be...appropriate.”
She drags her teeth over her lower lip, the corner of her mouth lifting in a tease. Not a nervous gesture—no, this is calculated. Meant to make me think about her mouth. About what she does with it.
“I know,” she says, eyes hooded. “That’s what makes it fun.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
She’s still watching me, waiting, like she knows exactly how much of a mess she’s making of my brain right now.
And she is .
Because as much as I tell myself I won’t, as much as I know I shouldn’t...fuck yes I’ll be online tonight.
I pull into my driveway, cutting the engine with a yawn. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement, warm and golden, and there—planted right on my front steps like he owns the place—is Logan.
He’s impossible to miss—broad-shouldered and scowling. The sunlight skims the sharp angles of his face, catching on the scruff lining his jaw and the loose tie of dark waves at the nape of his neck. He’s in his usual leather jacket, jeans stretched tight over his massive thighs.
What’s he doing here? I don’t dare hope he’s decided we should actually talk , so...is he here to see Sadie?
When I open my door, he lifts a hand in a lazy salute. “Where’s my favorite niece?”
I grab my bag and step out of the car. “With Josie’s parents. They should be dropping her off soon.” I say, climbing the steps.
He rises to his full height—taller than me by a few inches, built like he wrestles grizzlies for fun. My little brother who’s not so little. He nods at my bag. “How was it?”
Oh, so that’s why he’s here.
To check on me, on the job. To make sure I don’t fuck up and create problems for him.