Page 23 of With a Cherry On Top

NowI’m really, actually fine.

“Woah.”I look up at the towering building in front of me, making sure the address I have is right. Josie and I moved to Roseberg after we got married, and this is the first I’m finding out this apartment complex even exists. It’s definitely the fanciest place in a fifty-mile radius.

So naturally, Mrs. Arnault lives on the top floor. The penthouse.

I straighten my jacket and take a deep breath, reminding myself I’ve done harder things than this. I’ve cooked for Amelie, and as patient a teacher she is, she demands perfection. I’ve consistently delivered perfection. It’ll be fine.

I ring the buzzer and the door swings open before I even hear the chime. A sharply dressed usher stands in the doorway, looking me up and down with a quick, impersonal glance. “I...I’m Aaron. Coleman. Mrs. Arnault’s private chef.”

He blinks. “Mrs. Arnault?”

“Yes, hmm . . . Beatrice.”

He hums. “Montgomery.”

Are we just throwing out random names? “What?”

“Come in,” the man says, stepping aside.

I follow him into a sleek, marble-floored hallway, my shoes clicking sharply against the polished surface. He doesn’t speak as he leads me to the elevator and presses the button for the top floor. The doors close with a low hiss, and we ascend in silence.

When we arrive, the usher steps out first and opens the only door on the floor. “Mrs. Arnault is expecting you.”

I nod, crossing the threshold out into the expansive penthouse. The air smells faintly of expensive flowers, and a long corridor extends in front of me. There’s an arch to the left and I see a living room through it.

“Come in,” a clipped, cold voice calls, and with my heart pounding, I follow the sound until I step into the kitchen/living room space that must be as wide as my two-story townhouse.

Then I see her.

Mrs. Arnault sits poised on an elegant chaise lounge, one leg crossed over the other, a crystal glass resting between her manicured fingers.

She’s older—mid-fifties, maybe—but the kind of woman who’s only grown more striking with time. Her cheekbones are sharp and her jawline defined, her skin smooth with just thefaintest traces of age around her piercing brown eyes. They flick over me with calculated interest. Assessing, measuring.

“You’re not Amelie,” she says.

I blink. “No, ma’am. I’m?—”

She smooths her silver hair with one hand. “I expected Amelie.”

“Amelie’s out of town for the next month. She?—”

“Where?”

“Mayfield. She’s working a temporary gig. And...and besides, she doesn’t work for Chef & Tell—that’s her husband’s venture. She owns a restaurant downtown. Daisy?”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her gaze drifts over me and I try not to squirm as I feel her sizing me up. Finally she lets out a curt sigh, as if her day has been one long series of minor disappointments. “Fine. I suppose you’ll have to do.”

She sips the dark amber liquid from her glass and stands. Assuming she wants me to go with, I follow her to the kitchen area, which is as immaculate as I imagined—black marble countertops, gleaming appliances. When she turns to me, as if expecting something, my heartbeat picks up.

“Shouldn’t you be looking around? See if anything’s missing? Or are you as useless as the half dozen chefs I’ve gone through in the last year?”

“No, I’m...” I glance around and spot a sous-vide machine, a blowtorch, and even a truffle shaver sitting neatly on the counter.

I open each drawer and cabinet, half hoping I’ll find something missing—something,anythingthat would make me feel useful. But no. Every possible tool, gadget, and high-end appliance is accounted for, arranged perfectly, and has clearly never been used before.

“Everything looks?—”

“Make me an omelette.”

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