Page 31 of With a Cherry On Top

Before I can dig for answers, the door swings open and Beatrice breezes in, barely lifting her gaze off her phone. She sheds her coat in one fluid motion, tossing it over the back of the couch along with her bag. “Lunch should be ready.”

“It is.” I set the plates on the table, forcing my expression into something neutral.

Her sharp gaze flicks to the food, assessing it with the precision of someone who measures worth in calories. Straightening her white blouse, she nods once before turning to her daughter. “Charlotte. Time to eat.”

She moves toward the counter, but stops suddenly. Her eyes narrow.

“What—” Her voice is clipped, suspicious, as she peers at something near the fruit bowl.

A crumb.

A fucking crumb.

Charlotte’s entire body stiffens.

“What is that?” When Charlotte doesn’t say a word, Beatrice strikes her with a glare. “I asked you a question.”

I turn my back on them, heart racing.

“How am I supposed to know? I don’t cook.”

“Chef Coleman?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I twist, pan in hand. “Yes?”

“Was Charlotte eating something when you got here?”

I flick my gaze to Charlotte. She’s standing there with her arms crossed, but her eyes—her eyes are screaming at me.

Lie.

I glance back at Beatrice. “Excuse me?”

“My daughter,” she says sharply. “What was she doing when you came in?”

My gut twists. I’m a father—I should take the mother’s side. But this? This woman isstarvingher child, picking apart every single morsel of food she eats like it’s a crime. And Charlotte—she’s obviouslyterrified of her.

But what if she finds out anyway?

I can’t be fired.

Ican’tbe fired.

“Answer my question, Chef.” Beatrice’s voice sharpens. “The food’s getting cold.”

I inhale deeply. “She was on her phone, and I didn’t see her eat anything. The crumb must be from the pasta dough.”

She steps closer—maybe to taste the crumb to see if I’m lying?—and I casually wipe it away with my cloth, then meet her infuriated gaze. “It won’t happen again.”

Beatrice must be happy with my response, because she pulls out a chair and sits at the table. I watch Charlotte out of the corner of my eye as she joins her mother, a mix of gratitude and amusement playing on her features. Then she lifts her fork and takes a bite. Her lashes flutter.

She likes it.

She likes my food.

When she looks at me again, there’s something in her gaze that feels just for me.

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