Page 28 of With a Cherry On Top

You soundsopretty when you come.

I press my eyes closed for a moment, conjuring the thought away. “Not—not really. I’m just here to cook. Cook and clean, then leave. That’s it.”

“Except that’s not it,” she insists. “We’ve met on TOP.”

A trickle of sweat runs down my temple.

“Don’t deny it, Chef. I know that look. And besides, I don’t mind. In fact, I love it. Thank you for your business.”

I open my mouth only to quickly close it. Her voice is back to that same sultry tone she uses on TOP.

“Did we ever have the pleasure of getting on a call, just you and me?”

“Um...” She doesn’t know who I am. Has no clue that I’m the guy she’s probably been referring to as the Weepy Wanker.Thank god. “N-no. Just a regular, public live,” I lie.

She clicks her tongue, fingers reaching for the top button of my shirt. “Too bad. Maybe we should, huh? I could give you a promo code.” She worries at her bottom lip suggestively, flirty olive-green eyes scouring mine. “We could spend some time together. On the house.”

This is madness.Madness, and I need it to stop right now.

I reach for her hand, wanting to gently move it away from me, then drop my arm down my side before I can touch her. Touching herisn’ta good idea.

“I appreciate the offer, really?—”

“Of course, it’d have to stay between the two of us,” she interrupts, tracing a finger down my chest. Shivers rain down my spine, raising the hairs on my arms. “If Beatrice knew about my side-gig, I’d have to leave the platform.”

She calls her mom by her first name?

With an exaggerated pout, she adds, “And we wouldn’t get to hang out anymore.”

Oh.Oh. Of course. She’s scared I’ll tell her mom. That’s why she’s...flirtingwith me. I doubted whether this could get more inappropriate, yet here we are. She’s trying to buy my silence.

“Look...” I glance at the living room, making sure no one’s around. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. So there’s nothing I could tell your mother.” I say the next word slowly. “All right,Cherry?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes. Positive.”

She holds my gaze for a moment longer. “Okay.” Her hand grazes the back of mine, gently tugging at my wedding band. “’Cause I’dhatefor your wife to find out what you do in your free time. Wouldn’t you?”

My hand clenches in a fist as she walks away, and the second she disappears into the living room, I let out a heavy exhale.

I didn’t even make it into the kitchen before being blackmailed.

Wiping my forehead, I enter the open space. The women—four in total—are tall, leggy, and radiant, their bodies sculpted to perfection—the kind of women you see gracing billboards or magazine covers. Two of them, Bonnie and a brunette in a pink bikini, are out on the terrace, lounging on sunbeds, and their laughter carries over the music that’s blaring from the living room speakers.

Charlotte struts toward them, and with her freckled skin, the sunlight catching in her hair, the sway of her hips—she moves like she owns the world. For all I know, maybe she does.

The last woman, a blonde with icy blue eyes, is curled up on the couch, engrossed in her phone. She’s wearing a white bikini that contrasts against her tan, and her legs, long and toned, stretch out lazily.

I clear my throat, trying to focus on the task at hand. The counter in front of me is littered with empty glasses, some crumbs, a half-drunk pitcher of something vibrant and fruity.

Not my problem.

I’mnot supposed to feed Mrs. Arnault’s daughter more than 1,200 calories a day. If she gets extras elsewhere...well, quite frankly, good for her. I’m here to cook, and that’s all I’ll do. But as I gather the ingredients for the meal, I can’t help but overhear bits of their conversation—stories about wild parties, the places they’ve traveled, the men they’ve met.

Who are these people? Seriously, I need to google this family.

The blonde on the couch looks up, her eyes landing on me for a brief second. Uninterested, she turns back at her phone.

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