Page 29 of With a Cherry On Top

I follow her example and focus on the eggs, cracking them into a mound of flour on the counter. Today’s menu includes afresh seafood pasta, tossed with a lemon-basil sauce. I’m using my fingers to mix the eggs in, the dough forming as I work it together, when Charlotte’s voice carries over.

“Peter. Again,” she says, holding her phone up with a bored expression.

“Youhaveto go out with him, Charlotte. Are you kidding? A photographer like him?”

I eye them while I knead the dough, pressing the heel of my palm into it, stretching and folding until it’s smooth and elastic, and catch Charlotte rolling her eyes as she takes a sip of her drink.

“He’s such a douche,” she whines.

Bonnie hums. “But he’s got a Ferrari.”

The brunette holds up a finger. “A Maserati.”

Bonnie rolls her eyes. “Who cares? The point is he’ll probably take you to Paris on his private jet.”

“And book you foranythingyou wanted.”

Dragging my eyes away, I focus on the task.

Book her? Iseriouslyneed to find out more about these people.

“For some pussy, Peter will probablygiveme his private jet,” Charlotte deadpans, causing the other two to burst into laughter.

I should mind my business, but I can’t look away as Charlotte tilts her glass back and empties it in two sips. I zero in on the curve of her neck, the parting of her lips after she swallows, and I have every impure thought that’s ever occurred to man.

“Hey, Charlotte,” the blonde woman says from the couch. I find her gaze on me and quickly turn to the dough, smoothing my palm over it before wrapping it in plastic to rest. “It looks like yourcookwants some pussy too.”

Her voice is sharp and mocking, like she’s daring me to react, making no effort to hide her disdain. Though I feel heat rise up my cheeks, I refuse to acknowledge her.

“Maybe he’s fantasizing about touching someoneimportantfor once,” Bonnie adds.

The brunette snorts. “You sure you can handle all this, Chef? You look a little out of your depth here.”

I hate myself for the way my cheeks flare up. They’re fucking kids. Pretty, spoiled twenty-something-year-olds trying to get a kick out of humiliating someone forworking.

It’s not worth getting flustered about.

“Hey, maybe you could keep him as your sidepiece,” Bonnie insists. “Men who can’t afford you try much harder in bed.”

They all giggle, and in the silence that follows, I meet Charlotte’s gaze.

She hesitates for a moment, drink halfway lifted to her mouth. Then with a shrug, she turns away. “Afraid he’s going to have to keep dreaming. I don’t fuck thehelp.”

My eyes don’t strayfrom the counter. I keep my hands busy—kneading the last bit of pasta dough until it’s smooth, dusting the surface with flour, rolling and cutting it into delicate ribbons. Then it’s the sauce’s turn—a drizzle of olive oil, fragrant garlic sizzling until golden, white wine to deglaze the pan. Fresh basil, a whisper of lemon zest, and the seafood goes in last.

For forty-five minutes, I listen to their frivolous chatter without a peep. My head doesn’t lift when the girls check the time and decide to leave before Beatrice arrives. Not when they move past me in a cloud of perfume and giggles. Not even when Charlotte lingers, coming back alone to gather their glasses and set them in the sink with a mutedclink.

I’m not offended, of course. A twenty-three-year-old calling methe helplike I should be ashamed of having an honest-to-god job reflects worse on her. But the implication that IwantCharlotte? That sticks. That needles under my skin in a way I can’t shake.

Because she knows it’s true.

I wouldn’t have ended up on her page if it wasn’t.

“It’s too much food.”

Charlotte’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts. I flinch, glancing behind me at the sink where she’s rinsing the glasses.

“It’s about two ounces of pasta each.”

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