Page 44 of Boss of the Year
Did it work for him, especially when combined with the broad shoulders and permanent scowl?
Without a doubt.
I found myself staring a beat too long.
Our eyes met. For a moment, he stared too.
“Good morning, Marie.” Breaking eye contact, he slid onto a stool on the other side of the industrial-sized countertop.
I set down the mandolin, unsure of what to do. In ten years, I didn’t think I’d ever seen Lucas in this room.
Daniel, yes—mostly when he wanted to nick some of the dessert ahead of serving time or steal a bottle of wine for a date.
Mrs. Lyons came in daily to get her smoothie, go over plans with Ondine, and generally make herself feel like she had done something to nourish her family instead of paying us to do it for her.
Even Clifford Lyons, the ancient progenitor of the family whose mind had been ailing for years, sometimes wandered in looking for something to satisfy his sweet tooth.
But Lucas? No. He was always polite when we served meals, but he had, until now, treated the kitchen like it was the chef’s domain, and generally trusted us to do our jobs as much as we trusted him to do his.
Now it felt like a fox—or really, a panther—had just walked into the henhouse.
And I was the only chicken there to greet him.
“Mr. Lyons,” I said. “Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee, please. And it’s Lucas, Marie. I think we covered that the other night.”
I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to that. “All right. Lucas.”
Did those stormy eyes dilate just a bit when his name left my lips?
“Would you like coffee? Or espresso?”
Typically, Lucas preferred a cappuccino before he left for work, but that was usually in the dining room, not here. This early, I made coffee for the rest of the staff as they filtered in before starting their work. I generally made coffee for the Lyonses’ in the main house.
“A cappuccino, please.”
A few minutes later, I served his coffee. He watched me while he took his first sip.
“Exquisite.” He breathed in deeply. “As always.”
My cheeks warmed at the compliment.
“I wanted to discuss a few changes to the kitchen.”
I straightened and went back to the potatoes. “Um, of course. All right.”
Yet another thing out of the norm. Typically, Winnifred was the person who conveyed any of the family’s wishes to us, usually through the housekeeper. Lucas seemed to know it too, his brow furrowing, as if he was trying to come up with something to say.
“My father has developed some dietary restrictions that need to be accommodated.”
I nodded. “Yes, Ondine mentioned that. We’ve developed separate menus for him.”
Still weird that he was telling me this.
“And my stepmother would like to have Sunday dinner at the house instead of the club, at least through the end of summer. We’ll move the kitchen staff’s night off to Saturday starting next weekend.”
Another strange note for him to convey. Didn’t he have a board meeting to attend or a company to take over or whatever CEOs did on a Monday morning? Something eminently more important than chatting with the apprentice chef?
