Page 49 of The Billionaire's Assistant

“Bucatini with Sicilian almond pesto and burrata. The burrata will also go wonderfully with this Albariño.”

“Wow. I have never had any of that, but I’m sure it will be delicious.”

“You don’t have any food allergies, do you?”

“No. I’m open to trying new things.”

“I certainly got that impression earlier.”

I looked down, suddenly too embarrassed to meet his gaze. When I thought about the things we’d done, the way I had shamelessly begged him, the look on his face when he came, it was all too much.

I focused on the cheese and crackers as he whirled the ingredients in the food processor. By then, water was boiling in the large pot on the stove, so he added the pasta.

Sitting here in his kitchen with him cooking for me, answering normal, everyday questions was as strange as being naked in front of him. Being here made more sense when everything had felt like a fantasy in the giant tub and his enormous bed. Not that his kitchen wasn’t the thing a fantasy for anyone who enjoyed cooking, but there was something so normal about preparing a meal, even if it was a fancy one.

“What’s your favorite thing to eat?” Miles asked.

“My favorite for a special occasion or for every day?” I asked.

“Both,” he said.

“For every day, a bacon cheeseburger. If I’m going all out, anything involving scallops and pasta.”

“Good choices.” His smile made my heart flutter.

“What about you?”

“For a special occasion, nothing is better than a perfectly medium-rare filet. For every night, a simple pasta like this one.”

I studied him to see if he was serious. “That’s simple to you?”

“Sure. I just put ingredients in the food processor, make the pasta, and top it with the pesto and burrata.”

He certainly had made it look simple. “And when do you shop for all those ingredients?”

“I have my groceries delivered. All of these items are staples.”

“Wow.”

“So, what do you cook at home?” Miles asked.

“Ramen noodles, macaroni from a box, frozen dinners. That’s what simple means to me.”

He looked horrified. “That’s not food.”

“You really haven’t ever lived in the real world, have you? Did you always have your own cook? Even in college?”

“Maybe, but I had to eat cafeteria food in boarding school, and it was horrible. We had canned vegetables and pizza with nothing on it but sausage that didn’t even seem to be seasoned. I couldn’t wait to be fed properly at home during the holidays.”

Miles drained the pasta and stirred everything together. It smelled amazing and looked equally as beautiful. As a garnish, he sprinkled pieces of fresh basil over the top, then set a plate in front of me and refilled my wine glass.

“Go ahead and try it. Tell me what you think.”

I took a bite, conscious of him watching me, but I didn’t have to pretend to like it. It was amazing. Everything was so flavorful, and he really had pulled it together quickly. “It’s delicious. You really are good at everything.”

He joined me at the bar with his own plate and wine. “Remember, I only let people see the things I’m good at.”

Later, we snuggled up on the couch on his balcony, enjoying a nice breeze from the fans blowing on us, as we looked out at the lights of the city. I’d had enough wine—we’d finished the bottle he’d initially opened and another—to ask him. “What things wouldn’t you want to do in front of an audience—besides skateboarding?”

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