Page 48 of Boss of the Year
“I need my smoothie,” Mrs. Lyons said without preamble as she swept into the kitchen, still in her pristine white Pilates attire, nary a hair out of place. “Now.”
Whatever spell the brothers had cast over this domain evaporated.
“Of course, Mrs. Lyons.” I was already moving toward the refrigerator, where the smoothie was waiting. Kale, spinach, ginger, egg whites, protein powder, collagen, and a cocktail of supplements—no banana. I’d made it hundreds of times.
She didn’t say please, nor did she say thank you when I set the chilled glass in front of her. She simply picked it up, took a sip, and studied me.
“The baseboards in the guest wing need attention,” she declared as if I were any other member of the housekeeping staff. “See that it’s done today.”
I paused where I was turning off the ice cream maker. “Oh, um, okay. I’ll let housekeeping know?—”
“Just get it done.” She stood, smoothie in hand, and left without so much as a good-bye.
The message was crystal clear.
It didn’t matter who asked me to dinner, who remembered where my family was from, or who called me sweet in the dark hours of the night.
I was the help and nothing more.
And I would do best to remember my place.
11
RISOTTO
*Arborio rice is the only appropriate rice. Anything else is a fake.
Islipped through the glass doors of the conservatory at exactly 9:22 p.m., still catching my breath from the dinner service. My favorite vintage jeans—a French brand I still couldn’t pronounce properly—and the thin black camisole I wore under my chef’s jacket were a little too casual for a date, but it was the best I could manage in the five minutes I’d given myself after finishing the final wipe-down of the kitchen counters. My hair was still bound with a silk kerchief I’d worn through the afternoon and evening, but I’d traded my black Birkenstock clogs for a pair of platformed sandals, and just managed to swipe on a bit of red lipstick before dashing out to meet Daniel.
It’s not like I was going to cancel the date.Thedate, the one I’d dreamed about for years and years and years. Definitely not because I couldn’t do my hair just right or wear the perfect outfit, right?
It didn’t matter that serving dinner that evening had been torture. On Thursday night, Winnifred had informed Ondine and me that she was holding a last-minute dinner party and wanted a four-course meal prepared for eighteen. That, unfortunately, had meant that I’d had to sacrifice my day off to do prep work, a large percentage of which went to getting up at three in the morning to get the best fish at the market in Hunts Point, then spending several hours working on the requestedmille-feuille, along with its layers of strawberry and pandan-flavored pastry cream.
While Ondine finished the cooking, I had been called upon to serve dinner in my old maid uniform. None of the political luminaries, including Senator Hubbard, who seemed quite recovered from his hospital journey, paid any attention to the chef quietly refilling water glasses and ensuring each course arrived perfectly plated. I had no idea whether Mr. or Mrs. Lyons knew about my upcoming rendezvous with Daniel. I didn’t exist to these people.
I did, however, exist to both the Lyons sons. Daniel’s boyish winks made my cheeks burn while Lucas’s steady, unreadable gaze followed my every movement. Each time I set a plate in front of him and caught a whiff of leather, ink, and soap, my knees wobbled. He would murmur a quiet “Thank you, Marie,” that only I could hear, his storm-gray eyes would meet mine, and the rest of the room would fade until it felt like we were the only two people in it.
It made zero sense.
By the time I served the final course, my hands were trembling as I prepared to escape to the conservatory, though I wasn’t sure whether it was anticipation or anxiety driving my eagerness to leave.
The humidity hit me as I entered the greenhouse, along with the sweet, heavy scents of night-blooming jasmine andvanilla orchids. Daniel was already there, lounging on the same concrete bench where Lucas and I had sat, a crystal tumbler in his hand and a bottle of his favorite scotch, Balvenie 21, at his feet. For a moment, he reminded me of Dionysus despite the white button-down, navy chinos, and leather boat shoes that screamed yacht owner. His hair gleamed in the moonlight, and when he smiled, my favorite dimple appeared. The one that had always made me forget my name.
I could remember it right now, though.
Maria Annetta Zola.
Easy.
Huh.
“There she is.” His eyes passed over me with clear appreciation. “Damn, gorgeous. I swear, I couldn’t stop staring at you all evening—that sexy little chef shirt does nothing to hide what you’ve got going on.”
His gaze lingered on my décolletage in a way that made me want to cross my arms over my chest. Joni wouldn’t cover anything, though. At least that’s what I told myself as I stood up straight and didn’t slouch.
“Sorry I’m late.” I tugged at the thin straps of my camisole, unable to stop fidgeting completely. “Service ran long. Your parents’ friends like their nightcaps.”
“It’s the only thing I have in common with them.” He rose from the bench, swaying slightly. “Want some? I snagged the good stuff from Dad’s office.”
