Page 61 of With a Cherry On Top

Does she want me to make her one?

She turns her head slightly, then gestures toward the bar cart. “Make mea gin and tonic. And whatever you’re drinking.”

Oh, boy. That probably means this will be a long conversation.

I drop my bag onto the counter and make my way over to the bar cart, glancing at the collection of expensive liquors. I make quick work of fixing us both drinks, then slide one of them across the counter.

She takes it without looking up. “I’ll be gone this weekend,” she says, her tone crisp and business-like. “I know you’re off, but I was wondering if you could prep some meals for Charlotte today. She’s completely clueless in the kitchen. And everywhere else.”

A muscle in my jaw twitches. I can barely move past the insult, but didn’t Charlotte say she has a show this weekend? I figured that her agent—hermom—would go with her.

When she raises a brow in question, I rush out, “Uh, yeah. Of course.”

She pulls a sheet of paper from her stack and pushes it toward me. “Here’s what I have in mind.”

I scan the list. Grilled chicken breasts, steamed broccoli, brown rice. Dry, plain, joyless. “Uh-huh. All right.”

“Keep the portions light. Avoid beans—bloating. No salt, minimal oil. Stick to lemon and herbs. And whatever you do, no butter.”

I grip the edge of the paper a little too hard, my knuckles turning white. Jesus. This isn’t meal-prepping. This is fucking abuse.

If Charlotte wanted to eat like this, that’d be one thing. But I’ve seen how she lights up when something actually tastes good. The way she devoured that pizza.

And I’ve seen how her own mother talks to her.

“Everything clear?” Beatrice asks, her eyes scanning my face.

“Yes.” I glance at her drink, almost completely gone. “Another one?”

Beatrice points at my glass—still untouched. “Don’t make me feel self-conscious.”

I lift the tumbler and bring it to my lips. The gin burns its way down, crisp and bitter, but I barely taste it. I have no interest in drinking with this woman, but if there’s even a remote chance I can do something for Charlotte, I need to stay on her good side.

She swirls the ice in her glass, watching the liquid slosh against the sides before speaking again. “Your boss...Ian, I think? He said you have a kid.”

“He did?”

“I requested service every day of the week, but he said you needed two days off to spend with your child, and I didn’t want two different people. Of course, at the time, I thought Amelie would be my chef.”

Ian never even brought it up with me, but I guess it just goes to show what a great boss he is.

“I could see if someone else?—”

“Sodo youhave a kid?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“I hope for your sake that it’s a boy.”

I blink. “A daughter, actually. She’s six.”

Beatrice scoffs, her gaze dropping to the bottom of her glass as if there’s an answer to something in the remnants of her drink. “I was happy at first, you know? When we found out it was going to be a girl. Girls are easier, I thought.”

“They’re not?”

“Maybe until puberty. You better brace for that. Men, parties, mood swings.” She exhales heavily. “Boys are easier.”

I take another sip, letting the gin heat my throat.

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