Page 3 of The Fantasy League
I wouldn’t have thought much of it had I not found his breakfast sitting on the top of the trash the next morning while I was peeling vegetables. If that was a one-time event it would have been understandable, but I found his breakfast in the garbage for the next two weeks straight.
The food sat there in the trash can, mocking me.
Every. Single. Morning.
The real kicker came on day ten when the idiot kicked me out of his house right as I was in the middle of prepping his salmon for lunch later that day.
A lanky Korean girl, maybe a year younger than Mae and I, stood on his doorstep with two giant suitcases.
When he saw her standing on the porch as he peered through the window, he whispered that I needed to sneak out the side door as quickly as possible and come back in a week.
What a freaking asshole.
Mae said she recognized the girl from the modeling network. Apparently, she was a fashion designer from Los Angeles who’d been in town because her fall line was being featured at Miami Week of Fashion.
But that still didn’t explain why Abel frantically shooed me out of his house like some dirty little secret. The guy hadn’t dated in years according to my internet research, so why did he feel the need to hide his chef from some girl he was hooking up with for the week?
“He didn’t want his side chick seeing his hot chef; can you blame the guy?” She jokingly smacked my butt as she passed me on her way to the living room. Plopping her long legs on the coffee table, she settled into the fluffy white sofa. I let out a small laugh as I sat next to her on the couch.
“Doubtful. Can we change the subject, please?” I begged, laying my head lightly on her shoulder.
“Sure… are you going to tell me why you’ve been stress baking all day?” she said gently as she placed her head on top of mine.
My heart fell into the pit of my stomach. I was hoping she hadn’t noticed. But then again, it was hard to miss the two loaves of banana bread and three pizzas sitting on the counter.
Fresh out of culinary school, I started a food blog that had gained a steady following over the years. I started posting new recipes every week as a way to keep a digital cookbook. Now nearly a million people viewed my recipes every month.
When an agent reached out to me a few months ago to see if I had interest in turning my blog posts into a cookbook, I jumped at the idea. The only problem was that Imighthave kept it a secret from Mae.
I didn’t know if a book deal would actually come of it and I didn’t want to get my hopes up by telling her.
“So, a cookbook deal, huh?”
My head shot straight up, forgetting hers was right on top of mine. Both of our heads bang together, followed by searing pain.Jesus Christ.I cupped my forehead in my hands, attempting to ease some of the stinging underneath my skin.
“How did you know?” I shouted, shocked at her admission.
How could she have known that I got a cookbook deal? I haven’t told a single soul. Not even Dads knew yet.
“Scarlett, you can’t hide anything from me.” She cocked a brow at me as if I shouldn’t have been shocked by her profession of omniscience. “And when I asked to borrow your computer yesterday… Imighthave looked through the emails between you and your editor.”
“You snoop!” A laugh jumped out of me. Of course, she was going through my emails. “So, you’re not mad I didn’t tell you?” I questioned a bit uneasily as I leaned back against the couch cushions.
“Are you kidding me, Scar? I’m so proud of you!” she exclaimed. “I’m just disappointed you didn’t share this big life event with me. We’re supposed to do these things together, you know?” Her voice grew tender as she opened her arms to embrace me.
“I knew you would be happy for me… but I didn’t want to get my hopes up until it was set in stone. Even now, it still doesn’t seem real.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it doesn’t. I saw the number of zeros on that contract.” She said that like she wasn’t one of the highest-paid models in the world. Although, I did appreciate her attempt to make me feel special. “You could put a down payment on a house if you wanted!”
Yeah, a one-bedroom shack in the worst part of town.
Mae made more money in two days than I made in two years. So, she was more than alittleout of touch.
When Mom was sick, Mae was kind enough to cover her medical bills, but paying for the funeral and the business costs for starting my blog wiped me clean, and until recently I’d spent every spare dollar I made paying off my crippling six-figure culinary school debt.
Last summer, Mae decided to buy a house in the neighborhood where most of Miami’s elite lived. Hence why our neighbor was the best tight end in the league. I knew that I couldneverafford to live in this neighborhood, even now with no debt and a fairly decent income for a twenty-four-year-old; it would take me seven hundred years to afford a house in this neck of the woods.
Trust me, I did the math.
