11. Sicilian Sake Roll
Sicilian Sake Roll
T he fridge hums as I close it, the dim kitchen light casting long shadows across the floor. I was going to drink some water, but I might brew some coffee instead—it’s not like I’m going to sleep tonight.
It’d been such a good night. Sadie had the best time with Charlotte, who even agreed to stay through Willy Wonka she needs actual nutrition today.
So I decided three hours of notice could be too little. I could just not have looked at my phone. Could have just missed the message and showed up anyway.
Anything’s possible, right?
I glance back at the stairwell, debating turning around, but the door swings open and there stands Charlotte, her expression shifting from confusion to amusement. “Chef?”
Holy fuuuuck .
My gaze falls down her body.
She’s wearing a black satin two-piece set that should be illegal.
The silky blouse is barely fastened with one single button at the center, dipping low enough to reveal the angles of her collarbone.
And the skirt—fuck, the skirt. Short. Dangerously short, clinging to her hips before ending mid-thigh.
She slightly bends one of her legs, like she’s posing without meaning to, the back of a black stiletto pressed against her calf. “Chef?”
My eyes snap back up, to the molten-red hair pinned up in a messy twist, stray strands slipping free to frame her face. To the gold hoops in her ears and the gloss on her lips. “Huh?”
She crosses her arms, her lips curving into something wicked. “Do you need a glass of water or something?”
I nod, though I have no idea what she just said. How can someone look so sinful while being dressed? How can someone real be this achingly beautiful?
“I . . . I’m here to fill you up.”
Her eyes go wide and I suck in a breath.
What the fuck did I just say?
“N-no, your stomach .” Oh boy, I don’t think I’m making this better. “Fill up your stomach.”
Stop. Saying. That.
She brushes a speck off my shirt, fingers lingering. “Fill me up, huh?”
I open my mouth, then shut it. My brain is glitching. “I-I meant?—”
She leans in just a fraction. “Are you offering to stuff me , Chef?”
I make a strangled sound. “That’s not?—”
She taps her chin, feigning thoughtfulness. “Or were you thinking of something... deeper ?”
My throat goes dry. “Jesus Christ.”
She laughs, low and delighted, before stepping back. “Relax, Chef. I’m just hungry.” Then, with a teasing glance over her shoulder, “For food.”
I watch her go before following her inside the house. I need to get a grip. And a cold shower.
“Didn’t Beatrice tell you not to come at lunch?”
I clear my throat. “Did she? I must have missed the message.”
“Huh. Interesting.”
“What is?”
She smirks. “You don’t have a poker face or a poker voice.”
I look away—plausible deniability and all of that—but she doesn’t press. Instead, she pads toward the living room. “So, Chef. Why are you really here?”
“To cook for you.”
She plucks a sweatshirt out of a tall pile of clothes thrown over the white couch. “Yeah? Or to fill me up ?”
“I really didn’t mean?—”
“Come on, Chef. You wanna fuck?” she asks drily.
My skin runs hot. “No. No, I?—”
“Is it about TOP?” She glances over her shoulder. “Do you want a free performance?”
“ No. ” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Is it that impossible to believe I just want to do something nice? No hidden motive?”
“Yes.”
She sounds like she’s never been more sure of anything, and it’s a thorn lodged down my throat. Who taught her that? How many people have used her? How many times has she been made to feel like a transaction instead of a person?
“You think my mom cares about my career out of love?” she asks. “She does not . She’s my manager. I’m her job.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I say, though really I’m not, and I think she can tell by my uncertain voice.