I did my best to ignore my racing heart and focused on the cutlery. I had to admit the guy was drop-dead gorgeous, but I wouldn’t have any of it. I was there in a professional capacity and that’s what I would stick to. I pulled out a fork and held it up to examine the intricate pattern on the handle. I held the fork up to the light of the window and something caught my eye; hanging off the back of a chair at the kitchen table was a bra. I scoffed with a bit of a smile.
“Unbelievable,” I mumbled under my breath. I walked over and picked the bra up with the fork, holding it up as if it were a flag. “Cross-dressing on your time off?” I asked with an accusatory grin. I knew damn well that wasn’t why there was a bra lying around, but it was a lot of fun to see the shocked look on his face.
Remi walked over quickly with a slight hop in his step and snatched the bra off the fork. He threw it in the trashcan before turning to face me. “Do you think I’d look as good in a dress as you?”
“Nah. You don’t have my figure,” I smirked.
“That’s for sure,” his eyes raked over me from head to toe.
I could tell he liked what he saw, but I tried my best not to show what I was feeling. There was a lot of confusion and attraction flowing through my veins. I knew he was bad news so it didn’t matter if he wanted me; I would just end up being another victory notch on his bedpost.
“You really know how to work it,” Remi broke the silence.
“Excuse me?”
He nodded toward the stove and smiled teasingly, “The stove. And other things.” There was a long pause as he leaned forward, “Like the oven and what have you.”
I knew he was doing it on purpose especially by the way he kept checking me out. He was brazen and I couldn’t quite figure out if I liked it or hated it. What I did know was that being quick on my feet wasn’t an option here; it was a must.
“Oh,” I said, placing my hands on my hips, “I definitely know how to work it or else I wouldn’t be standing in your kitchen.”
I didn’t worry about engaging in our flirtatious banter. I didn’t want him to think he could use it as a way to make me feel uncomfortable. The last thing I wanted was to give him the upper hand. He was nothing but a rich playboy and I was going to focus on the only reason I was there—to improve my cooking and get paid for it.
“You’re technically in my breakfast nook,” he corrected me.
I marched over to the kitchen, right past Remi, and turned to look at him defiantly. “There,” I said, “As your chef this is my place.”
“And everything else is too,” he reminded me. He sat down on one of the stools lining the counter on the kitchen island. He rubbed his hand up and down his thigh as he looked me dead in the eye, “You can find your place pretty much anywhere here.”
I swallowed and pointedly looked at the windows behind him. I refused to look at the way he was suggesting I take a seat on his lap. There was no way that was going to happen. Finally, I took a few steps forward and placed my hands flat on the surface of the kitchen island. I loved the way the cool marble felt against my skin.
“Look,” I said seriously, “I’m here for work and work only. I’m just the chef.”
The following day came quickly. I wasn’t even sure what time Evelyn had gotten back to the condo with the groceries she picked up. She refused any help from me, even transportation. It was annoying.
I was lying in bed and looking toward the windows even though they were covered with blackout curtains. I stretched and got out of bed to pull on some boxers and throw on a robe. Breakfast was already laid out on the kitchen table. I took a seat and saw a little note that read, “Breakfast in the breakfast nook.” The handwriting was delicate and pretty. She really had a sense of humor.
I placed my cell phone on the table and pulled the plate of fruit closer to me. Just as I dipped my spoon into the yogurt my phone rang. I swallowed and sat the spoon down, taking my time to check the name on the screen. It was my father. That was the last person I wanted to talk to. I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath before answering the phone anyway.
“Hello,” I said somewhat loudly as I put it on speaker. I didn’t want to stop eating breakfast or stop scrolling through the news on my tablet. It wasn’t like I wanted to pay full attention to anything my father had to say anyway.
“I’m out here in the Keys,” he said briskly. He had a habit of responding to questions I never asked. “Sunset Key is quite a place,” he went on, “You ought to see the new cottages going up out here. Talk about top of the line. Of course you know I’m not here to see them for no reason.”
He went on about his newest business venture and I sort-of checked out of the ‘conversation’. Pretty much every time my dad called it was for something mundane and boring. It was all just a ploy so he could open the door of conversation to complain. And, inevitably, the complaints circled back to criticism of me.
“Uh huh,” I responded dully at one point.
“Here I am talking to you about the Keys and this great business venture but, of course, you don’t give a damn. Trying to talk to you about anything important is a waste of time. I don’t know why I keep doing it, Remi. Are you too busy fucking some dumb broad to care about the family business?”
“At least the family business isn’t the only thing I’ve ever cared about,” I fired back. Now my father had my full attention. “If you only cared about your family half as much–”
“Yeah, well, at least I have a family. You can’t get your nose out from between some dumb twat’s legs long enough to make yourself into any sort of meaningful man.”
I hated being interrupted, but not nearly as much as I hated how my father always berated me. What got me heated even more than that, if it were possible, was the fact that he never acknowledged any of my accomplishments.
“There’s nothing wrong with having fun. I know you have no clue what that means, but that’s your problem. You seem to forget I’m a self-made man,” I snarled. I was clearly angry and had no qualms defending myself. “So don’t try to tell me I haven’t done anything meaningful in life. I did it all without a single dime of your money.”
He scoffed at my remark, “If you want to believe I didn’t give you my knowledge of the business world then go right ahead. Whatever helps you sleep better or, in your case, fuck dumb broads better.”
I brushed his comment off. I knew how these arguments went and I didn’t feel like dealing with it that morning. Just then, Evelyn walked into the kitchen with a scrunched up worried look on her face. She was walking toward the fridge, but when my gaze met hers she mouthed, “Sorry.” She had overheard at least part of our ‘conversation’ over the speakerphone.
There was a lull in the heated conversation and I quickly reached for my phone to take it off speaker. Just then I heard him say, “I’m not going to call you a fuck-up son, because you’re not.”
I paused, my heart rate picking up and I held my breath.
I was almost ready to end the call, but now my father was saying something I rarely heard my whole life. This was one of the few times my dad had ever given me anything remotely close to a complement. I didn’t want to cut the phone call short. I could practically feel the word “but,” coming out from my dad’s mouth. Still I waited on baited breath. It didn’t matter that Evelyn was standing in the kitchen, hearing every word of the conversation. I wanted to hear what else he had to say. I naively hoped it might actually be something positive.
“You may not be a total fuck up, BUT you do have to get your priorities straight, son.” My heart sank. There was the turn I knew was coming even if I had hoped for something else. “Stop fucking around and partying so damn much! Stop with the endless parade of dumb broads. Those airheads might be fun to you now, but there’s more to look for in a woman than that. The perfect woman could be right under your nose and you’d find a way to fuck it up somehow.”
I glanced over at Evelyn. She was staring straight forward at the pantry, slender hand cle
nched tightly around the glass of orange juice she had poured. It was obvious she felt awkward and didn’t know what to do. I stared at her for a moment as I mulled over my father’s words.
“I have to go,” I said curtly before ending the call. I quietly set my phone back on the table, with the screen down and the ringer off.
“How much did you hear?” I asked Evelyn. A part of me didn’t want to know the answer, but I needed to.
Evelyn sighed and ran her hands through her wavy, dirty blonde locks. It was only then that I noticed her hair was loose, but I was too worked up from the call to pay much attention. “Too much,” she responded quietly before adding, “I’m sorry.”
I wasn’t sure if she was apologizing for overhearing the conversation, expressing her regret over the issue with my father, or both. I wanted to believe it was the first option. I couldn’t deal with her expressing regret for my father issues. I cleared my throat and tapped my fingers on the tabletop, shifting my gaze out the window.
“I’m sorry for having it on speakerphone. I’m, uh, not used to having people over in the morning.” I cringed inside. That last sentence came out wrong. That was exactly the sort of thing that magnified my playboy lifestyle my dad just chewed me out for.
“Right,” Evelyn said quietly. She ran her fingers through her hair again before turning to the refrigerator to pull things out for her own breakfast.
I watched her quietly as I started to daydream. She moved delicately and quietly throughout the kitchen. She opted for fruit and granola with a second glass of orange juice. She took a seat at the counter of the kitchen island with her back to me. She didn’t even glance in my direction the entire time. I liked that she still went about her business even if it was awkward.
I sighed and picked up my spoon even though I didn’t feel like eating anymore. I sat the spoon down without taking another bite and leaned back in the chair, arms crossed with eyes fixed on Evelyn. She wasn’t just some airhead I had banged and then kicked out of the apartment with a cab fare. And she wasn’t just my chef. I didn’t necessarily want to be that asshole playboy, but I couldn’t seem to break myself out of it.
The truth was I enjoyed it on some level. I hooked up with hot women, got off, and never had to see or speak to them again. On the flip side, I had to endure grueling dates with them beforehand. I was always bored. I knew there was a reason I loved people-watching the other couples at the Red Brick Cuisine. It wasn’t because anything was better than listening to what’s-her-name gab on about purses and makeup either.
Evelyn shifted on her barstool. Her hair fell over her shoulder, catching the morning light. The way it cascaded down her back was shiny and beautiful. Would ‘settling down’ with the so-called right woman be like this? Would it be quiet and peaceful?
I ran my hand over my temple as I watched Evelyn quietly eat her breakfast.
After breakfast I slipped back into my bedroom to get dressed and ready to finish picking up my things at my tiny apartment. Everything else would be boxed and stored in a storage unit, all of which had already been arranged. I still hadn’t told my dad all the details of my new job, but he was always busy working anyway. Knowing I was well and safe kept him content. Remi told me he could handle lunch on his own so I had plenty of time to get everything in order before dinner.
Having been so captivated by the size and scale of Remi’s kitchen had briefly made me forget everything I was giving up. I had a place of my own and now I was going to, essentially, live in a room. It was a very large and luxurious room to be fair, but it still wasn’t my home. I had cooked a final meal in my apartment’s tiny kitchen, a light lunch, and enjoyed eating it at my table. By the time I left I was more than okay with the decisions I had made. It was a new chapter in life.
That evening, I finished dinner for Remi right on time.
“What’s for dinner?” He asked as I was plating his dish.
I heard Remi sit at the kitchen table and I briefly wondered if that was where he would take his meal or if he preferred the formal dining room. “Stuffed chicken Valentino,” I told him. “With my own little twist, of course.”
Remi hummed in acknowledgment and delight when I sat his plate on the table in front of him. I stood back and admired my presentation for a moment. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t cooking for a high-end restaurant. I just loved to plate food beautifully. I made sautéed asparagus to accompany the chicken and artfully dotted a red sauce over the white plate. It was the sort of meal and presentation that photographed beautifully for four and five star restaurants.
My artful display was seemingly lost on Remi as poked at an asparagus spear before harshly cutting a piece of the stuffed chicken. He stuck it into his mouth unceremoniously and then made a satisfied ‘mmm’ sound. He cut another piece off and stuffed it in to his mouth, chewing quickly before swallowing.
“So what’s your little twist?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Or what,” he laughed, “You’ll have to kill me?”
I playfully tapped my finger to my lip as if I were considering such an option. Then I shook my head, “No. If I told you I’d be out of a job.”
I let the confusing and slightly worrisome statement hang in the air between us before turning and walking back to the kitchen. I tidied things up a bit and wiped down the counter tops before turning back to look at Remi. He was busy enjoying his food, but he would occasionally look over to check out what I was doing. It didn’t make me feel awkward. He seemed more like a curious kid than anything.
“So good,” he announced loudly. his piece of chicken was nearly finished. “Never in a million years could I ever be able to cook like you,” he complimented. He stuffed another piece in his mouth with gusto and grinned once he swallowed it. “So, so good,” he repeated.
The way he looked at me while complimenting my cooking made my heart skip. I was trying so hard to stay completely professional toward Remi, but he had a way of getting inside of me and underneath my skin. Between his compliments and the cute way he hummed in savory delight, he was making me feel like I was about to go into cardiac arrest.
“Thank you,” I muttered somewhat nervously. “I’m glad you liked it.” I excused myself to fix my own dinner before taking a seat at the kitchen bar to eat.
“What are you doing?”
I swallowed before responding, “Oh, did you want me to wait to eat dinner until you were done? I–”
“What? No. That’s not what I– No,” Remi took a breath and straightened up in his chair. “I mean,” he went on more clearly, “Why are you sitting over there?”
I stayed quiet and stared at him, fork midair with a piece of chicken threatening to plop back down to my plate. I wasn’t quite sure where else I was supposed to sit. I wondered if he really was the type to have a separate room for the help or something. “I’m just taking my dinner here,” I said slowly.
Remi sighed exaggeratedly like I was being intentionally difficult, “Yeah but why?” He reached out and tapped the spot of the table adjacent to where he sat. I eyed the spot and then looked back at him. I wasn’t stupid; he probably was telling me to go sit next to him, but it just seemed so weird for some reason. “Come sit over here.”
“Oh, that’s very nice of you but not necessary,” I politely refused. In my mind going to sit over at the table with him to have dinner together blurred the line of professionalism and something more personal.
“Come on,” he insisted. “It’s not a big deal. What’s the real difference with you sitting over there? It just doesn’t even make– just come sit over here, won’t you?”
“I’m just the ch–”
“You’re not ‘just the chef’, Evelyn. You live here. Please, I insist.” He outstretched his hand toward the chair in an awkwardly polite manner.
I turned back to my plate to think for a second about what his comment could mean. I knew I shouldn’t focus on him saying I wasn’t ‘just his chef’. It didn’t have to mean anythi
ng, really. It could just mean he was trying to make me more comfortable since I was living there. I stood up and gripped my plate tightly before heading over to the kitchen table. I felt a little nervous as I sat down and suddenly realized it might have been better to sit across from him rather than next to him; but that was the chair he motioned toward. He was at the head of the table and I was on the broad side, so at least the corner of the table separated us. I focused my attention on my plate of food and kept my breathing steady.
“Sorry again about this morning,” Remi said quietly a couple minutes later. I kept my head turned down toward my plate, but I still glanced up at him. He was quiet and serious even though I didn’t think he needed to apologize. “My dad can be a real asshole.”
“It’s okay,” I reassured him softly, “I understand.”
I saw a change in his eyes. It was almost as if a certain level of hopefulness had lit up those brilliant blue eyes of his.
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