by J. L. Beck
The cashier gives me a look that clearly says she doesn’t give a shit.
Beneath the counter, I dig my nails into my palms until fat tears well in my eyes. “This is so embarrassing.” I cover my mouth and heave a little sob.
The guy behind me leans over with his credit card. “Don’t worry, I got it.” He gives me a wink.
“Oh my Gosh! Thank you!” I leap forward and wrap him in a hug, making sure to press my breasts against his chest in thanks. I grab my bag and strut out of there with my forty dollars in tact.
As soon as I reach my car, I get to work transferring the beautifully arranged food into Tupperware containers and sliding them into a picnic basket. I top off the presentation with a blue ribbon tied around everything, and then I hit the gas and drive all the way to the mansions at beachfront Miami.
I park just outside the sprawling carnation colored Mediterranean Revival style home with art deco sensibilities. It’s exactly the kind of outlandish thing I’ve been dreaming of one day owning myself, outright and legit, instead of stolen out from under someone. The breeze carries the scent of salt from the ocean and kicks my hair up in a wild snarl of blond. The light colored strands still startle me whenever they cross my vision, and my stomach clenches with lament for my signature dark locks. But my reward for a job well done will be a reunion with my old appearance.
I press my finger to the doorbell and as soon as I do, my limbs start to twitch. I pace back and forth on the concrete front porch, trying to wear it off. There’s more riding on this con than any of the small time jobs I’ve pulled in the past.
The clicking of my heels works to combat the sound of heavy stomps heading to the doorway from inside. A shadow covers the peephole before the door swings open. Sweltering heat beats down on my bare shoulders, but the sweat slicking my brow stems from something deep inside me.
Colby stands there in low-slung jeans and a casual white t-shirt that does nothing to conceal the six-pack abs hiding beneath. His smoldering blue eyes search me, sliding down my throat, past my low cut cleavage, and lingering on the picnic basket secured strategically in front of my hips before he jerks his face back up. He pins with me a gaze so intense, so thoroughly invasive, that I sputter out a breath.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
For a moment, I can only stare at him, struck numb by the piercing eyes, chiseled jaw, and luscious locks that landed him at number two on the list of Miami’s hottest billionaire bachelors. The last and only time I saw him—when he unknowingly swiped the metaphoric tablecloth out from under me and knocked my entire life off balance—I hadn’t gotten close enough to take in that delicious smile hiding behind his pursed lips. It takes concentrated effort to force myself to swallow and remember that I’m supposed to be charming him, not the other way around.
I shake my head slightly to knock myself out of my daze and pop on my signature smile that tends to lure guys right where I need them to be: vulnerable.
“Hi!” I grab his hand from where it clutches the door, forcing him into an energetic handshake that clearly catches him off guard by the way he stumbles toward me. “I’m Liliana and I’m here to interview for the Personal Chef position.”
Colby clears his throat and casually slides his hand out from mine. “I’m sorry, but I’m already in the middle of an interview.” He pulls the door open a little more, giving me a front row seat of the dark hardwood floors that lead up to chic mid-century modern gray couches in his sitting room, and a guy wearing a chef’s coat shifting his weight uncomfortably on the tweed cushions. “You’re supposed to call first.”
Farther in the background, a woman with a severe bun sings quietly to herself in Spanish as she dusts the handsome dark wood end table that blocks the rest of the house from view.
“I did call.” I inject my words with pep and cheer to cover the way my voice cracks on the lie. “I spoke with a woman.” I switch the fluent Spanish to tell him the woman said to come by this afternoon for the interview.
Colby glances behind him and curses under his breath. He clearly did not understand a word I said judging by his knitted brows, but got my implied meaning: his employee made a promise he now has to keep.
The heavy basket makes my arms start to shake. I struggle to lift it up for him to see, grunting in the process. “Any place I can set this down?”
Colby rakes his hands through his hemp-colored hair, shifting the locks back to a side part, and presses his lips together. “One second.” He shuts the door just a bit, but it’s enough for me to hear hushed whispers and annoyed grunt from the guy in the chef’s coat.
A second later the guy in the chef’s coat storms past me, shooting me with a middle finger in the process.
“Sorry about that. That guy wasn’t working out anyway.” Colby leads me inside, giving me a perfect view of his sculpted ass as I follow him into the sitting room the rejectee just vacated.
He settles onto a couch but I immediately head down the hall until I find the dining room, my eyes memorizing every end table and closed door I pass. I set my picnic basket on the reclaimed wooden table and start removing the Tupperware plus the elegant Lenox bone china dishes I picked up at an Estate Sale last week for two bucks a pop. With equally ornate bargain serving ware, I gracefully scoop the food out of the Tupperware and transfer them to the plates before I lovingly wipe up excess with a dishtowel. After I set out a cloth napkin and ornate flatware, I flourish my hand toward the place setting. When I glance up, I notice he’s been leaning against the wall, watching me with a glint of interest.
A nervous flutter warms my belly.
He saunters over to me and takes a seat in front of the feast.
I stand up straighter. “Today I’ve prepared for you a gourmet lunch consisting of braised lamb chops seared on a grill with a spread of mango chutney and truffle risotto. The sweetness of the mango compliments the smokiness of the lamb.” I wave my hand over the first dish. Ten hours of watching the Food Network was all the prep I needed to speak like a sophisticated culinary expert. “For a lighter option, I present to you an array of vine ripened tomatoes atop a bed of wilted arugula and finished with a citrus vinaigrette that balances the tartness of the vegetables with a delightful spring pop.” I inch closer to him until he’s forced to glance up at me. “And lastly, no meal is complete without something sweet to finish it off.” I wave my hand toward the slice of cake as my toes bump against his socked feet. I lower my voice to sultry levels. “Indulge in a slice of cake made from chocolate imported directly from Paris and finished with homemade caramel sauce.” No clue where the chocolate comes from but Paris sounds decadent.
He sniffs the air. “God, it all smells amazing.”
I wink at him, knowing the only thing he can likely smell with me standing so close is my flowery perfume. “Tastes that way too.” I hope…
Colby grabs a fork and a knife and carves into the lamb chop, slicing off a piece of perfectly cooked meat. He twirls the fork in the air, admiring the way the juices run down onto the plate.
My chest stills. I don’t dare even swallow as he brings the fork to his mouth.
Before he takes a bite, his hand freezes. He presses his lips together, turning the fork over skeptically, before he sets it back down on the plate.
Panic climbs my spine and I nudge the plate closer to him. “I assure you, it’s delicious.”
“I’m sure it is.” He leans back in the chair. “But it wouldn’t be fair to the other candidates.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. This guy has a conscience?
“Can you make me scrambled eggs instead?”
“But—“ I open my mouth to speak but then clamp it shut again. My pulse amps. “I just spent all morning cooking you—“
“For all I know, you could have walked into a store and purchased this. I need to see you in action. Scrambled eggs are a simple dish but everyone has their own technique. I want to see yours.”
My technique usually involves going to brunch and orderin
g some. I grit my teeth. “No problem.”
“And why don’t you tell me about yourself while you cook?”
“Well, actually, I have everything you need right here.” I reach into my purse and hand him a crisp resume printed on creamy card stock.
He crumples it up and tosses it into a nearby trashcan. “Like I said, tell me about yourself.”
I slide my phone out of my purse. “Sure thing. But would you mind if I used your restroom before I get started?” I need to Google recipes to figure out what the hell my scrambled eggs technique might be.
“Third door to the left down that hall.” He juts his chin in the opposite direction of the kitchen. “Leave your phone here.”
A furious scream builds in my chest, but I stifle it and set my phone down on the table with an audible slap. My only hope of a recipe is winging it.
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I’m clearly going to have to find another path into his life.
2
I amble to the restroom, placing one foot in front of the other while my head darts around, taking in the three drawers end table stationed at the edge of the hallway. Two closed doors hold the promise of more hiding places. Inside the tastefully decorated taupe bathroom, I futilely rip open each cabinet, cursing under my breath when stray cotton balls and extra toilet paper greets me instead of a multi-million dollar diamond and ruby brooch. I know the brooch wouldn’t ever be stashed in a downstairs guest bathroom, but I have to check. This might be my only shot at searching this place so I need to cover as many bases as I can. I have to learn his habits. It might be the only way to deduce where he might have stashed it.
I commit the layout of the downstairs to memory, noting the locks on each window and the motion sensor alarm system that guards every room and hallway. Shit. Shit. Shit. This place is a fortress I’ll never be able to crack if I have to resort to old school methods of thievery that involve breaking and entering instead of conning Colby into trusting me enough to give me free reign of this place.
When I come out of the bathroom, I find Colby perched atop a stool in front of the giant kitchen island, the black marble mirroring the reflection of his chiseled face. Several industrial grade stoves and refrigerators fit into perfectly carved spaces in the shiny counter tops.
“Everything you need is here.”
“I can see that. What happened to your last chef?”
He shrugs. “Finally getting around to hiring one. Before this it was cereal or take out for every meal.”
I throw open each dark wood cabinet even though I know the brooch won’t be here, either. Exotic spices of every variety line up in neat rows on the shelves. Plates, mugs, and glasses for all types of drinks fill the other cabinets. On the far wall, a liquor bar boasts hundreds of top shelf bottles. A tingle starts at the back of my neck. My eggs are not going to impress him, so I need to do it with the only actual talent I have. I grab one of the oranges from the bowl in front of him and slide a cutting board onto the granite.
His eyes flash with amusement. “Orange for scrambled eggs? That’s certainly a new technique.”
In lieu of answer, I give him bullshit. “I’ve been cooking since I was seven-years-old. Self taught. While most kids rode bikes, I whipped up chocolate soufflés. When I was in high school, I earned the ACF culinary youth award for my skills.” I drive a small paring knife into the orange and cut a half moon slice, releasing a citrusy aroma into the air. I drop the slice into a short crystal glass, juices running out of it to coat the bottom. “From there I studied at the French Laundry under Thomas Keller.”
Colby’s eyebrows shoot way up and I hope he doesn’t fact check any of this by checking references. These same details appear on my resume, each one plucked from key research on the web.
I thrust my hips in a va va voom way as I head to the liquor cabinet and pluck out a bottle of Pappy van Winkle bourbon, the very best kind there is…in my opinion anyway. I also swipe a small bottle of angostura bitters. “From there I worked at Daniel in New York.” I balance a sugar cube from the pantry on top a cocktail napkin over the surface of the glass. Squeezing one eye shut as if lining up a gunshot, I pour a few drops of the orange bitters onto the sugar cube with expert precision. The napkin beneath the cube soaks up the excess, leaving the perfect amount of liquid to seep into the cube.
Colby watches with his mouth parted as I toss the napkin and drop the cube into the glass with the orange.
“Ah, my weapon of choice.” I slide a long bar spoon out of the liquor cabinet. “It’s the perfect size.” I wink as I muddle the bitters, sugar cube, and just the fruit of the orange into the bottom of the glass, careful to avoid mashing the pith. The sugar crunches as I press the back of the spoon against the crystals. A few ice cubes join the mashed bitters, and I add a splash of the bourbon into the glass, just enough to get everything wet.
Colby’s eyes follow every gentle revolution of the bar spoon as I stir. I may not have any actual culinary skills but mixing drinks are my specialty. Besides for running con jobs, that is. Bartending pays my bills. Small cons pay my debts.
I add a few more ice cubes and follow with more bourbon. My spoon clinks against the sides of the glass, disappearing in the foggy orange color. “After a few years,” I continue, “I transferred to Blue Water Grill in New York City as their lead chef.”
His eyes widen. “Did you work with Taylor Spitz?”
A bolt of panic shoots through me. My spoon stops in the middle of a whirlpool of orange liquid. “No, she wasn’t there.” I debate adding “yet” or “anymore” but I don’t know which direction to go in.
“He,” Colby corrects.
Fuck. My heart begins to beat loudly, but I cover the sound with a strained laugh. “Like I said, I never met him.”
A good con artist doesn’t just spew words as fact and not have any way to back it up. Liliana Grandy, my alias for this job, has a Facebook profile, a LinkedIn resume, and a past I made up for her that fits with my story. Always my real first name, always a fake last name. Helps me avoid slipping up somehow. If he checks up on me, he’ll find the answers he’s seeking.
I slide the Old Fashioned over to him. “Drink up.”
Colby lifts the glass in cheers and brings it to his nose, his eyes fluttering back at the scent. He sips tentatively, like he doesn’t quite trust me yet. I’ll have to change that immediately. I hold my breath as he audibly swallows.
His eyes widen. “Holy shit. I think this is the best drink I’ve ever had.”
I give him a triumphant smile. “It is. You can trust me on that.”
He takes another gulp. “Well, now I can’t wait to see what you do with the eggs.”
Ugh. Me too.
I turn my attention to the stove and hope he sucks that drink down good and fast. It won’t get him drunk enough to forget all semblance of the eggs I’m about to cook, but maybe it’ll be enough to loosen him up so I can talk my way into this job I’m not at all qualified for.
Colby has an impressive selection of pots and pans, and I bite my lip, trying to decide which one is best for eggs. Sleek and silver? Non-stick with a little red emblem in the center? Large, small, fucking hell. I choose the smallest one: a gleaming silver pan that looks like it’s never ever been used. I set it on the stove and turn up the heat to the highest level. Warmth coats my face and amps the sweat pooling in the crooks of my elbows.
In the fridge, I grab three eggs and some butter. He mentioned everyone has their own method and I guess mine is slapping a pat of butter into the pan, cracking the eggs directly into the bubbling grease, and then sliding a silicon spatula around and hoping for the best. Steam and smoke rise fast and heavy, making me cough.
Colby clears his throat and a bolt of panic zips through me.
The eggs sizzle and harden before I can fully mix them. My pulse races as I twist the heat way down, but it’s too late. When I scrape the eggs onto a plate, they’re littered with burn marks. Half of th
em stick to the pan in a hopeless mess of goo. I don’t dare glance back at him, but I can feel his gaze weighing heavy on my back. I can’t throw these out and start over, that would just prove to him that I’m a hack. A fake. A liar. There’s only one thing to do: act like this was purposeful. So I sprinkle salt and twist some pepper onto the eggs, then grab chives from the fridge and chop a few as garnish.
I pass it to him along with a fork and put on my best smile, leaning forward on the countertop to make sure my breasts crest the edge. If he’s going to eat this crap, at least he could have a good view.
Colby looks horrified as he scoops up a bite and gooey drops of uncooked eggs drip onto the rubber hard mounds that wiggle on his plate. He sets the fork down without biting. There’s a hard set of his chin. “You didn’t work at Blue Water Grill.” He pushes the clear evidence away and breathes a sigh of relief now that he no longer has to wallow in the burnt smell. “Tell me who you are and why you’re here.”
Apprehension knots in the base of my throat. I grip the edges of the counter top with white knuckles and hunch my shoulders defensively. His gaze is so intense, so invasive, it’s almost as if he can see right through me. My cooking failed. My words are my only hope of doing damage control. “Okay.” I inhale a shaky breath. “Here’s the truth,” I lie. “I have no formal training. Well, except in cocktails.” I jut my chin toward his empty glass. “But it’s always been my dream to go to culinary school. Turns out though, culinary school is expensive.” I let out a strained, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m so broke, I can’t even afford rent. I’m living out of a motel where there’s no kitchen, no opportunity for me to improve my skills.” At least this last part is true. It’s a small offering I can give him among all the lies. “I need this job. It’s the only way I might have a shot at turning my situation around. Working as a fry cook at Applebee’s is not going to impress any culinary schools and the salary won’t cover tuition.”
He runs one hand over the short stubble of his jaw. The line of his gorgeous mouth is tight and thin. “Fuck.”
