Page 64 of With a Cherry On Top

“Wait, wait.”

Her shoulders stiffen.

“I get it, okay? But do you really think this is a good idea?” My voice is lower now, and she angles her head to watch me from the corner of her eye. “She makes things hard enough for you, Charlotte.”

Her expression flickers, but then she gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Which means I don’t have a whole lot to lose.”

She presses the elevator button, the numbers steadily rising as it makes its way to our floor. “Who’s going with you?”

She taps her chin. “Tens of thousands of fans.”

She’s goingby herself? I don’t like that. Not one damn bit. The thought of her alone in a crowd, surrounded by strangers, dressed likethat. I know men too well to be comfortable with it.

She reads my face, because of course she does, and smirks. “I can take care of myself, Chef.”

“I know you can. I just . . .”

“I’ve looked like this since I was fourteen. That’s how old I was the first time I got catcalled. You know how many talent managers I’ve had to put in their place?” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know how many before I even turned eighteen?”

Eyes bulging, I freeze. “How many?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I’d like an actual number.Andnames.”

She hitches her bag higher up her shoulder. “Adorable.” She hesitates for a beat, then, “Look, I don’t need you. Seriously. But Idohave an extra ticket.”

My lips press together as the implication sinks in.

If she’s not going to be here to eat dinner, my job is kind of pointless tonight. I’ve already prepped her meals for the weekend. And if I were in Beatrice’s shoes, I’d sure as hell prefer my daughter not go to a concert alone. At least if I’m there, she’ll be safe. She’ll be with me, and my intentions are pure.

Mostlypure.

“Assuming Sadie’s cared for.”

“What?”

She tilts her head. “Sadie? Your daughter? If you can’t go, it’s fine. She’s probably waiting for you, right?”

“She, um . . . she’s with her grandma.”

She asked about my daughter. It’s just the decent thing to do, I guess. But my mind plays an unfair comparison game, and Charlottecaringis enough to overwhelm me with gratitude.

She watches my internal war with undisguised amusement, then steps inside the waiting elevator, leans against the back wall, and grins.

“Get a jacket, Chef,” she says, voice dripping with satisfaction. “It’s chilly out.”

The cool nightair hits us as we burst out of the stadium, and I can still feel the faint vibrations from the bass in my chest. Charlotte’s giddy with energy, her hands flailing in the air as she talks a mile a minute about the show.

“Did you hear that guitar solo?” she shouts. “It was like he wasflyingthrough the riffs, I swear! And the crowd? Insane!When everyone was jumping, it felt like an earthquake, didn’t it?”

She laughs with her whole face, and it lands right in the center of my chest.

I don’t think she notices how quiet I’ve gone. I can’t stop staring at her, watching her move. Her eyes are sparkling, her cheeks flushed, and there’s this unguarded joy on her face that I rarely see. When I cook for her and her mom, she’s always so...composed. But tonight, for hours, she’s beenfree—her every word, every gesture, so full of life. I can’t look away.

She’s still talking, but her words are a hum in the background now. I’m thinking about how she looked tonight, dancing and singing, caught up in the music.

“So what did you think?”

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