Page 24 of With a Cherry On Top

I glance at her. “Excuse me?”

“An omelette,” she says, taking a seat at the island. “You know? With eggs? Make it for two people.”

I swallow.An omelette?

She’s testing me. There’s no way Ian knew I’d be expected to cook or he would have told me. I don’t even have her list of their allergies and no-go ingredients with me. “Do you have a preference? Anything you’d like or?—”

When she looks away, I nod, heart racing. I can’t screw this up. I just can’t.

I open the fridge, scanning the contents. Eggs, butter, maybe some herbs...there’s not a lot to go on. Will she expect something fancy? Is the point of this to see me tackle the simplest of recipes? Does she like mushrooms?

I grab a few items and walk to the counter. Once I crack the fourth egg, she clears her throat. “Four eggs?”

“Uh...” I look down. “I can add more?—”

“It’s too much.”

I watch her, unsure what to do, until she points at the sink. “Start over.”

Seriously? She wants me to toss these perfectly good eggs just to crack two more? “I could set half away?—”

“Start over,” she repeats, her gaze unwavering.

I turn around and empty the contents of the bowl into the sink, watching the eggs slosh down the drain. Anticipating her reaction if any of the old eggs came into contact with the new eggs, I wash the bowl, the sink, and walk back to the counter.

Two eggs cracked, I begin whisking. “I normally add a splash of cream?—”

“We don’t eat cream.”

“Or milk.”

Her lips purse, which I assume is a “No” on the milk too. I grab some mushrooms, cut them up and add cheese, then a little bit of chives.

“You know what cheese is?” she asks. I glance dumbly up at her. “Flavored fat.”

I look down at the mixture, jaw tensing. She saw me pull the cheese from the fridge. She watched me grate it—why is she only saying this now?

“Start over?” I guess.

She grabs a magazine from the pile and begins lazily flipping through pages. I walk to the garbage bin and throw everything away, then start again. Crack, whip, mushrooms, chives, salt.

“Start over.”

She can’t be serious. What did I do now?

“We don’t want anyone to feel bloated, do we?”

Bloated?“It was just a pinch of salt—really, just for flavor.”

It’s like I’m speaking a language she doesn’t understand, so without further argument, I walk to the bin and throw out this mix too.

Thismustbe a twisted way for her to see how much she can push me before I crack; otherwise, she would have given me instructions before I started.

But Mrs. Arnault has met her match, because I’d sooner spend thirty-six hours making this omelette than raise my voice at her. Or rightfully tell her to go fuck herself.

I’m not going to disappoint Ian and Amelie. And I’m definitely not quitting on my first client.

I grab two more eggs. Crack. Whisk. Mushrooms, chives. This will be the shittiest omelette ever, but there’s only so much I can do with these ingredients.

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