Page 100 of With a Cherry On Top

I lower to my haunches, checking the gas valve, then turn the knob and press it until the burner clicks to life. Beatrice watches, unimpressed.

“ . . . Seriously?”

“Maybe the ignition was being fussy. It happens.”

I glance at the fridge, the sink, the half-prepped ingredients on the counter. It looks like she was in the middle of cooking before the burner stopped working. Or like a hurricane recently hit her kitchen. A citrus juicer is out, sticky with orange pulp. There’s a small saucepan with caramelized sugar cooling near the back, and beside it, a duck breast, skin scored, waiting to be seared.

“I can take care of lunch,” I offer. “Since I’m already here.”

Beatrice’s sharp gaze cuts to me. “Please, I already feel silly for calling you over. You’re not supposed to work for us on weekends.”

“I don’t mind, really,” I say.

She glances toward the counter, and when she speaks, her voice is cooler than before. “No. You do enough for us. How about you stay for lunch?”

I start to shake my head but she turns toward the fridge, already dismissing me.

“I insist,” she says over her shoulder. “Sit down, relax.”

I hesitate, then glance back at Charlotte. This is atypical, isn’t it? Beatrice asking me to stay over for lunch? She’s barelyinteracted with me for weeks, but I’m now supposed to buy that the woman who made me restart an omelette four times doesn’t want to inconvenience me?

Weird, but I get to sit with Charlotte for a while, so I’ll take it.

There’s that same mischievous glint in her eyes as I walk over, then pull out the chair next to her. With a glance at the drawing of a gown she’s working on, I sit.

“Charlotte.”

“Chef,” she says in acknowledgment.

Nothing else, but I think she sees it in my eyes. That I’ve missed her, that I’ve been thinking about her non-stop. That I’m starting to dislike weekends, because I don’t get to hear her voice and bury my face between her legs.

Beatrice works in silence for a while, and the scent of onions and shallots sautéing in duck fat fills the air, sharp and savory. She deglazes the pan with orange juice and Grand Marnier, her movements precise. There’s no sense that she actually enjoys cooking—it’s just something to be done—but she definitely knows her way around the kitchen.

“I’m sure this won’t be anywhere near as good as what you’re used to,” she says.

“I’m not that picky.”

“That’s kind of you to say. But I assume your standards are higher than most.” She stirs the sauce in the pan, its amber sheen catching the light. “Where’d you learn? Cooking school?”

Charlotte is still holding her pencil but she’s no longer sketching. Annoyance flickers across her face, quick but noticeable. Is she bothered that I’m interacting with her mom?

I meet her gaze, trying to silently reassure her that everything’s fine, then say, “Amelie Preston taught me most of what I know, actually.”

Charlotte’s jaw tenses. Not a flinch, exactly—but something cold and unreadable flashes through her eyes.

“Really?” Beatrice hums, spooning some of the sauce onto a tasting dish and blowing on it delicately. “Daisy’s chef.” She glances at me. “She’s mentioned in every cooking magazine possible.”

Charlotte shifts beside me, still pretending to be absorbed in her sketchbook, and just as I open my mouth to tell Beatrice just how special Amelie’s cooking is, her hand lands on my thigh.

I throw her a panicked glance, but she ignores me, eyes stuck to the paper. Her fingers flex and dig into the muscle just above my knee.

Fuck, her touch sends a jolt straight to my groin.

I try to subtly shift away, but her hand follows, sliding higher, grazing my inner thigh.

Beatrice is now reducing the sauce, her back to us. She’s oblivious to what’s happening here, but if I want to keep it that way, I need to say something.

“Her late father was an internationally renowned chef, and she’s pretty much blowing him out of the park. It’s quite—” Charlotte’s hand slides further up. I can’t breathe. “Im-impressive.”

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