Page 57 of With a Cherry On Top

She taps her chin, feigning thoughtfulness. “Or were you thinking of something...deeper?”

My throat goes dry. “Jesus Christ.”

She laughs, low and delighted, before stepping back. “Relax, Chef. I’m just hungry.” Then, with a teasing glance over her shoulder, “For food.”

I watch her go before following her inside the house. I need to get a grip. And a cold shower.

“Didn’t Beatrice tell you not to come at lunch?”

I clear my throat. “Did she? I must have missed the message.”

“Huh. Interesting.”

“What is?”

She smirks. “You don’t have a poker faceora poker voice.”

I look away—plausible deniability and all of that—but she doesn’t press. Instead, she pads toward the living room. “So, Chef. Why are youreallyhere?”

“To cook for you.”

She plucks a sweatshirt out of a tall pile of clothes thrown over the white couch. “Yeah? Or tofill me up?”

“I really didn’t mean?—”

“Come on, Chef. You wanna fuck?” she asks drily.

My skin runs hot. “No. No, I?—”

“Is it about TOP?” She glances over her shoulder. “Do you want a free performance?”

“No.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Is itthatimpossible to believe I just want to do something nice? No hidden motive?”

“Yes.”

She sounds like she’s never been more sure of anything, and it’s a thorn lodged down my throat. Who taught her that? How many people have used her? How many times has she been made to feel like a transaction instead of a person?

“You think my mom cares about my career out of love?” she asks. “She doesnot. She’s my manager. I’m her job.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I say, though really I’m not, and I think she can tell by my uncertain voice.

She rolls her eyes, like I’m being naive. “My first boyfriend liked my pool, my second boyfriend liked my mom. My best friends liked my boyfriends, money, or my pool boy.” She leans against the back of the couch, her voice almost bored. “Everybody wants something from me—always.”

I maintain her gaze. “Not me.”

I just wanther.

She bites the inside of her cheek, looking fascinated rather than annoyed. Eventually, she straightens and shrugs. “All right, Chef.”

She turns and slips out of her top, and at the sight of her blue bra, my brain fries out. The fabric of her skirt slides down her body next, pooling at her feet like it was always meant to be there, discarded and forgotten.

I immediately spin around, locking my gaze on the nearest wall and away from her matching blue panties. “Oh—I’ll give you a minute.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says easily. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen on TOP anyway.”

I press my lips together, inhaling through my nose.

Sure, I’ve seen her naked on TOP, but that doesn’t mean she’s just an image on a screen. Something for anyone to access at any given moment, as if her body belongs to the world instead of to her.

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