8. Duck Confits and Ego Trips #2
They’re pressed together, her back against the wall, his hands on her hips. His mouth on her neck.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
Something in my chest twists, sharp and sudden, before I can shove it down.
I don’t move. I should make a sound, announce myself, something . Instead, I stand there like an idiot, stuck between wanting to make them stop and wanting to disappear.
They’re too lost in each other to notice me, her fingers tangled in his hair, his hands roaming her waist. She snickers again and something dangerously close to jealousy coils in my gut.
I’ve got to make it stop.
I clear my throat, and in the silence, it lands like a drop of ink in water—small, but impossible to ignore.
Charlotte startles, her head snapping up, while the man’s hands drop from her body like he just realized it’s on fire.
“You’re here,” she says tentatively.
“Yeah.” I arrange the duck legs on a tray, covering them with plastic wrap. The last thing I need is for her to see something in my face that I shouldn’t be feeling.
Her companion steps forward, hands tucked in his pockets. Blond, clean-shaven, expensive-looking sweater draped over his shoulders. He studies the kitchen with casual disinterest before settling his attention on me.
“Your mom got a chef?” he asks, then nods to Charlotte. “Good for you.”
“Let’s go to my room, Peter. We have an hour before Beatrice comes back home.”
One hour.
Her. With him. In her room.
A sour twist tightens inside me. I shouldn’t care—I know I shouldn’t—but the thought makes me nauseous, a bitter taste creeping up the back of my throat.
He doesn’t move right away. Instead he steps closer to the counter, eyes shifting to the food I’m preparing. “One sec,” he tells her before pointing a finger at me. “Mind making us some snacks?”
Do I mind making Peter some snacks? I do, actually.
“He’s not going to cook for you,” Charlotte says, rolling her eyes.
“Why not?”
“Because my mom has given him very clear instructions, and your snacks aren’t part of that.”
He snorts. “Models, am I right?”
The way he says it. Like he’s bored of fucking models left and right, and I’m supposed to somehow relate to that. Like Charlotte is just another body he’s entertaining himself with, and he assumes I think the same way.
This is the guy Charlotte was talking about with her friends, isn’t it? The Maserati owner with a jet who’s an important photographer. He looks to be in his early thirties.
I tighten my grip on the wooden spoon in my hand, imagining how satisfying it would be to shove it straight into his smug mouth.
“How about you make us some drinks, then?” he tries, and Charlotte lifts her arms in exasperation before she heads toward the hallway.
He leans in, lowering his voice. “Make them extra heavy, all right? I could use some help getting her loosened up.”
What did he just say?
Anger unfurls in my gut. Of course he’s one of those pricks. Guys who think alcohol is a shortcut to consent, who believe women are just obstacles to maneuver around rather than people with agency.
I set another pan on the fire. “Well, that changes everything,” I say, my tone light. Let him think I’m going along with it for just a second.
He waits, but when I don’t move from the stove, he scoffs and extracts a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. “Come on. Man to man.”
I let out a sardonic laugh. Man to man .
I finally meet his gaze head-on, leaning with both hands against the counter. “You’re not a man,” I say. “You’re a boy.”
His features pinch, lips parting in stunned offense. “The fuck is your problem?”
“A man doesn’t ply women with alcohol so they’ll sleep with him. A man respects their partner enough to let them choose what they want, without manipulation or games. He knows that true intimacy is built on mutual respect, not pressure.”
Peter’s jaw tightens, his entitled little brain slow on the uptake. He straightens, puffing his chest slightly.
“You know, I could get you fired,” he finally says.
I smirk. “Could you?”
Somehow I really doubt that if he relayed this conversation to Beatrice, I’d come out a loser.
I push away from the counter. “I suggest you get out of my face and go entertain Charlotte however she wants you to.”
He shifts his weight, swallowing. I can tell he’s used to people deferring to him, to women bending under the weight of his charm, to men nodding along to whatever bullshit he spews. But I’m not one of his frat buddies. I don’t owe him anything.
“And I recommend you don’t take it a single step further than what she’s comfortable with.” My voice drops lower. “Because, man to man , your last name or your money won’t help you if you do.”
His nostrils flare, but he says nothing.
“Peter?” Charlotte calls, her voice cutting through the tension.
We both turn where she’s standing by the entrance, arms crossed and gaze flicking between us. I don’t know how much of this she’s heard, but I hope it’s a lot.
“Are you coming?”
He scoffs, swallowing whatever he was about to say. “I am.” He winks at me. “And so is she, buddy .”
Fuck me. There is absolutely no way I’ll stand here while he does whatever he’s planning to do in that room. Not after what he said.
“Afraid Beatrice is on her way,” I say as he steps toward her. Charlotte’s reluctant gaze is on me as I raise my phone. “She just texted.”
“Really?” she asks. How do I just know she doesn’t believe me for a second?
“Yep. Just a minute ago.” I focus on Peter. “So you should go. Now.”
He clicks his tongue then turns back to Charlotte, whose eyes stick to me.
“I’ll see you later, okay?” she says.
“Seriously?”
She nods, and then he’s storming away, mumbling curses under his breath.
Though I don’t dare to look up, I can feel her gaze burning on the side of my face until she disappears again.