Her Protector

by R. S. Lively

  “I got hired to be a chef at a private party next week!”

  His mouth opens in an expression of sheer joy. I stare back at him blankly.

  “You what?”

  “Some spoiled rich guy is throwing a party next week and he was looking for someone to handle the food. So, I got a phone interview with his assistant and got myself hired to be his chef for the night.”

  “But you aren’t a chef. And no amount of binge-watching Alton Brown on the weekends wearing nothing but an apron is going to make you one.”

  Lee’s arms drop to his sides and his expression turns into a pout.

  “I’ve learned a lot from those shows, I’ll have you know. Besides, I’m going to do fine. It’s not like it’s some fancy soiree or anything. He specifically wants something low-key and casual, but delicious.”

  “Well, you are nothing if not low-key, casual, and delicious.”

  The smile returns.

  “Thank you.”

  “Wait… you had a phone interview with his assistant? And that’s it? This guy wants to hire a chef for his party, and all it takes is a phone call for him to hire you? No references. No tasting. How did you actually manage to land a job like this?”

  “I might have had a friend put in a good word for me.”

  I nod.

  “Ah. Well, that will be fun for you.”

  “Fun for us.”

  “For us?”

  He reaches out and takes both my hands in his.

  “Why don’t you come with me and be a waitress? You can carry around a tray and hand out appetizers.”

  “Does the guy you hired want a waitress?”

  “I don’t think so. But he will once I talk to him. He just doesn’t know he wants one yet.”

  “Perfect.”

  I can see how excited my best friend is for the opportunity, and I love him for his enthusiasm. As hard as I’m trying, though, all I can think of is the fear and anger stemming from the email. Q is getting ruder and more demeaning with each email, and with every passing day we get closer to the day when there’ll be nothing I can do to stop the theater from slipping between my fingers.

  Chapter Five

  Alice

  One week later…

  One hand holds a cordless curling iron in place at the side of my head, and the other tries to get a black pump onto my foot, as I jump around in place. Balance has never been one of my strongest personal attributes. Somewhere in the pile of discarded clothing options on the bed my phone rings, the sound muffled by layers of assorted black and white garments. Something has to be sacrificed, and it’s not going to be taming my natural red curls into something glossier and more professional-looking. Dropping the shoe that refuses to go onto my foot, I bounce my way on uneven feet over to the bed and dig through the clothes. I catch the call on what is probably the last ring.

  “Hey, Lee, I know I’m running a few minutes late, but I’m getting ready as fast as I can. Deciding what to wear is a little more difficult when you’ve never been an unwanted waitress tacked onto a private chef job. But that’s why we worked in the buffer. We’ll still make it on time.”

  “I won’t.”

  “What do you mean, you won’t? We can’t be late.”

  “I can’t get there.”

  His voice sounds strained.

  “Just get ready and head over. I’ll stall.”

  “No, Alice, you need to listen to me. I can’t be there at all tonight.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry. There’s an emergency and I can’t get there. I need you to fill in for me.”

  “Fill in for you?” I ask shrilly. “Like, as the chef? You can’t be serious. I don’t know how to cook for a party. I haven’t seen nearly as much Alton Brown as you, and I never watch it wearing an apron. You’re going to have to call someone else.”

  “There is no one else. It’s too short of notice. You’re the only one. You have to do this for me, Alice.”

  “Lee…”

  “Think of it this way. You didn’t want to be the unwanted waitress. Well, now you get to be the headliner. This guy definitely wants a chef, and you’re the only option.” His voice softens from the frantic peak it had reached. “Please. You have to do this for me. I need you. Besides, you’ll make some money. That will help with something.”

  I let out a sigh.

  “Fine. I’ll do it. But you seriously owe me.”

  “Thank you. I’ll explain everything tomorrow. I’m emailing you the menu.”

  The call ends, and a few seconds later, my phone beeps to tell me the menu Lee planned has arrived. I scroll through it as I sit at the edge of my bed to force on the shoe, then kick them both off. Chefs don’t wear heels in the kitchen. Not even fake ones.

  Lee’s email assures me all the groceries and supplies for the night have already been delivered to the house where the party is being thrown, so all I have to do is get there. I check the address, put it into the Maps app on my phone, and determine there’s no way I’m walking. Calling for an Uber probably isn’t the best use of my money, but someone who hired a private chef for his party likely would not be amused by a both sweaty and half-frozen woman stumbling in after trying to run through a February New York night to get to the party on time.

  I’m not familiar with the neighborhood where the driver brings me, but it’s not what I was expecting. When I think of someone willing to hire a chef for their dinner party, my mind goes to the ridiculous apartments and houses scattered throughout the city that cost more each month than I’ve paid for my tiny apartment in the last few years. Instead, the almost unnervingly cheerful girl driving the sparkly lavender Bug that picked me up pulls up in front of a relatively modest brownstone. Still more house than I could afford if I cloned myself and got four more jobs, but nothing splashy.

  “Is this it?”

  “Yep! Right there. I hope you had a wonderful ride!”

  “It was great. Thanks.”

  I slide out of the backseat and head up the steps to the door. I’m scraping by on time by the skin of my teeth, so I don’t have any wiggle room to stand around and contemplate the situation. Lee needs me to do this. I don’t know why. But he’s done enough things for me throughout our friendship without questioning it, I guess I owe him. I’ve never asked him to fill in for a career neither of us have, but maybe all those days spent in the theater rubbed off on me and I’ll be able to pull it off.

  Lee’s instructions included the code for the door, so I let myself in and stand awkwardly just inside the entryway for a few long seconds. Three maids in matching crisp pink uniforms bustle past me without even acknowledging I’m here. The house has the distinct air of being newly scrubbed, but without the lingering scent of any particular cleaner. That’s one of those things I notice about people. There are those who want their house to be clean, but have a neutral smell, and there are those who want you to be able to smell the clean the second you step in. I fall in the latter camp. Deep cleaning my apartment is something I don’t do anywhere near as frequently as I probably should, so when I do break out my favorite artificially-colored cleaning products and gloves, and get down to business, I want the difference to be obvious. When I take a deep breath, I want to feel like I’m walking past fresh laundry in a pine forest while sipping lemonade.

  I should probably choose one scent and stick to it, rather than a different one for each room.

  Left completely without instructions, I make my way through the house and wander until I find the kitchen. Just as Lee promised, bags and boxes from various food and restaurant supply delivery companies clutter the counter and marble center island. Curiosity leads me to pull open the gleaming chrome refrigerator door. The shelves are meticulous, but that seems to be the case only because the food inside is all brand new. This is the refrigerator of a man who never cooks. The reasoning behind him hiring me – well, Lee – are becoming clearer.

  An apron draped across the corner of the island catches my a
ttention. Shrugging, I take off my coat and set it aside, then drop the apron down over my head. It takes a few loops around my waist to make it stay in place, but once I have it tied, I feel more official.

  The sheer volume of groceries scattered around me is overwhelming, and I’m not sure where to start, but the bright blue numbers on the front of the untouched state-of-the-art oven are gradually ticking away the minutes before the guests come, so I need to get it together. Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I pull up Lee’s email again. A toaster that looks like it has never seen a crumb works perfectly as a prop to hold my phone up so I can start orienting myself.

  I’ve just arranged ingredients into piles for the appetizers when I notice a man come into the kitchen. My breath catches in my throat as his bright blue eyes sweep over mine and he combs one hand back through this thick, brown hair.

  Hoping my forced cough sounds like a tickle in my throat from the cold outdoor air and not a visceral reaction to him, I go back to scanning the instructions in the email. Everything seems like relatively small amounts, and I check the entrees.

  “Only five?” I mutter to myself.

  An image of the man who lives here is starting to form in my mind. It might not be one of the flashiest houses of the city, but what he doesn’t have in real estate, he’s making up for in pomp and circumstance. Mr. Blue Eyes glances around the kitchen for a brief moment before ducking back out and heading toward the front of the house. I blow out a breath. He’s enough to take the chill out of the evening air for me.

  It takes almost half an hour, but finally dinner is moving along. Several things are sputtering away on the stove, the oven is preheating, and I’m almost finished with one of the three appetizers.

  “Excuse me, is this yours?”

  I’m leaned over a pot of sauce on the stove, wondering if it is really supposed to be this Pepto-reminiscent color, and the voice startles me. The spoon is still in my hand when I whip around, sending a cascade of tiny sauce droplets across the floor.

  “Oh, damn,” I say, dropping the spoon back in the sauce and reaching for paper towels.

  I’m crouched down scrubbing when I glance up and realize the voice came out of the blue-eyed man. The blue-eyed man who is now holding my coat up in one hand as he watches me clean up the sauce I’d scattered all over the pristine kitchen floor. Fantastic. Things are going well.

  “Do you need any help?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “No. It’s fine. I’m used to this.”

  I’m used to this? Why the hell did I just say that? I either just told the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen that I’m accustomed to slopping things all over the floor when I cook, or that I’m just in general a slovenly person. Both look great on me.

  “OK. Well, is this your coat? Do you mind if I move it to the closet?”

  “Oh, no. That’s fine.”

  He smiles and disappears again. He’s gone just long enough to give me the time to lambast myself before coming back into the kitchen and opening one of the cabinets. The counter fills with various bottles of liquor as he unloads shelf after shelf, then moves to another cabinet and starts taking out glassware. He must be a bartender. This may be my chance to gloss over our awkward meeting and ingratiate myself with my fellow staff. After giving myself a quick once-over to make sure none of the pink sauce had ended up on me, I glance over at him.

  “You aren’t thinking about setting those up in here are you? Because I think you should probably move it into the living room.”

  He looks at me with a hint of sparkle in his eyes.

  “Why is that?”

  “Seriously? Look around you. This man hired a staff to host his dinner party. He needs a chef to make dinner for him and four other people. I saw no fewer than three maids shuffling around getting this place clean, and it doesn’t look like he even touches this kitchen. You really think someone that spoiled is going to let his guests just wander into the kitchen and DIY their drinks?” I scoff. “I doubt it.”

  “That’s probably a good point.”

  He sounds like he’s muffling a laugh, but before I can say anything else, a woman in an emerald green dress steps up to the door. Leaning against the doorframe, her bright red lips grin in at the man.

  “So, this is where you’re hiding, Dean.”

  Dean? Dean. Dean. I know I’ve heard that name. Maybe I’ve seen it.

  My stomach drops. My fingertips creep across the counter toward my phone, trying to look surreptitious.

  “I’ll be right out, Sandra,” he tells her. “Can you actually bring these out for me?”

  The woman looks at the two bottles of liquor he hands her like she has no idea what to do with them.

  “Is the bartender running late?”

  My finger hits the screen and scrolls to the top of the email to where Lee put the address of the brownstone and the details of the party. Dean Laurence.

  Oh, shit.

  “No. I was thinking we would just DIY our drinks tonight.”

  The woman walks out of the kitchen and I turn to Dean.

  “I am so sorry,” I start, but he shakes his head.

  “Not a problem. I’d probably think the same thing about me.” He takes a step toward me and leans in conspiratorially. “I do think the same thing about them.”

  I laugh.

  “Well, I mean, it is a little ridiculous. There are only five of you. You couldn’t put together a quick pasta?”

  “I don’t spend a lot of time cooking, as I think you noticed. But, I promise, I’m not actually that type of person. I just wanted something a little fancier tonight. It’s technically a business dinner.” The woman he referred to as Sandra calls his name from the front of the house. “Besides,” he grabs up some of the glasses and heads toward the door. “I’m spoiled.”

  His wink makes my body go numb, then tingle as my heart jumps shamelessly in my chest. Heat streaks across my cheeks and I get back to the pink sauce on the stove as Dean disappears to the front of the house. For the next half hour, I balance pretending to be a chef and doing my best to decide what I think of Dean. Mr. Laurence? I haven’t spoken to him by name, so I’m not sure which I should use. The house is beautiful and elegantly decorated, but nothing in it screams opulence. It gives me the impression he’s comfortable, but not super wealthy. That puts me at ease. Now to determine if this Sandra woman is his wife, or if the high-pitched giggle following each time she says his name is supposed to be her mating call.

  Chapter Six

  Dean

  I have no idea who the girl in my kitchen is. She is definitely not the person Jonathan told me he hired to be the chef for tonight. My assistant isn't always completely on top of things, but I do have at least enough confidence in his ability to tell the difference between hiring a guy named Lee and a woman named... come to think of it, I don't know her name. Somewhere in between getting transfixed by her vibrant blue eyes and wild red curls, and her insulting me and everyone I know, I didn't get a chance to ask her for it.

  One thing is for certain. She's not moving around the kitchen like she's a professional. Whoever she is, ‘private chef’ probably doesn't make an appearance anywhere on her resume. But I'm not going to stop her. As long as she can make something edible to give my guests, I'm happy to have her flitting around.

  Handing each of the guests who have already arrived one of the glasses I brought into the living room, I make my way back to the kitchen. She's bent over in front of the oven, peering inside and seeming to have a muffled conversation with whatever is baking there. I have to stop myself from just standing and staring at the way her tight black pants cup around her round ass.

  "Is it talking back to you?" I ask.

  The woman stands up and whips around so sharply I'm worried she's going to knock over one of the pots cluttered on top of the stove. Her cheeks are slightly reddened, and it only works to make her more beautiful.

  "What?" she asks almost breathlessly.

&nb
sp; "Whatever you're talking to in there," I say, nodding slightly toward of the oven. "Does it at least have the courtesy to answer you?"

  "Oh." She glances at the oven and then back at me and shakes her head. "No. But you know what they say about cheesecake. Rude."

  "You made cheesecake?"

  "Yeah. Chocolate cheesecake. I know it isn't on the original menu, but after reconsidering, I didn't think brownies were an appropriate dessert. So, I just put this together with what I had. It used to be my father's favorite dessert and my mother would make it for him on holidays and birthdays and anniversaries and you didn't ask me any of that so I'm just babbling incessantly about my life when you have guests, you're supposed to be entertaining. I'm sorry."

  She lets out a sigh, but all I can do is laugh. In the very few minutes I've spent with her, I have become totally charmed by her. She's gorgeous, but there's something about her, something I can't find the words for, that makes me want to stay in here with her rather than go back out to the guests waiting for me. The fact that she's making chocolate cheesecake doesn't hurt.

  “Well, it's my favorite dessert, so I hope it pulls itself together and starts cooperating with you.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I don't think I introduced myself. I'm Dean.”

  I hold my hand out toward her, and she wipes hers on her apron before taking it.

  “Alice,” she says.

  “It's nice to meet you, Alice.”

  “You too.”

  Our eyes meet and we stare at each other for a few seconds, the pull obvious between us. I go against every Instinct I'm feeling and take a step back away from her. Gesturing somewhere in the general direction of the living room, I offer her a hesitant smile.

  “I should probably get back in there.”

  “Yeah. I should probably get back to,” she gestures toward the stove, “the insolent cheesecake.”

  I'm still smiling as I carry two more bottles of liquor into the living room. The three former clients and the friend they want to refer to me have arrived and are sitting in a tight cluster in my living room, leaned toward each other as they murmur to each other under their breath. This would probably be considered polite conversation if we were in a larger gathering. Considering that they are sitting in my home and we're the only ones here, it makes them seem like they're wary visitors to some foreign land, unsure of the strange customs of the locals. Like my home not having a permanent staff or them having to pour their own drinks. None of the people perched on my furniture have the financial power I do, but you'd never know it by watching them.