Page 25 of With a Cherry On Top

I move a pan to the stove, flick on the burner. I reach for the butter, then turn to her. She’s glaring at it so hard it’s alreadymelting, so I set it away. I add a bit of oil, then pour the mixture into the heated pan.

The omelette comes together—fluffy, delicate. I take the spatula and gently flip it. If I’m being honest, I’m impressed I managed to make something halfway decent under such a rigid microscope.

I slide it onto a plate and turn to her, trying not to look too hopeful.

She eyes it for a long moment, then picks up her fork and takes the tiniest bite. I hold my breath, but her face doesn’t give anything away.

She chews, swallows, then puts the fork down.

“Here’s your copy of the keys.” She holds out a small envelope. “Inside, you’ll also find my phone number, my daughter’s phone number, and Katia’s—that’s the maid. Our schedule is also in there, so you can prepare the correct portions.”

“Uh-huh.” She must be pleased. I’ve made it through the first hurdle, and I get to tackle the second one. “Sure, yes.”

“Come and go however you please during the day, but I expect you here to serve lunch and dinner. Noon and five o’clock. Bring the ingredients with you, take leftovers when you go. Nothing should be left in the fridge.”

“O-okay.” It’s...weird, but great, honestly. My mom would have watched Sadie regardless, but with this schedule I’ll be able to have dinner with my daughter every night.

“And one more thing.” A powerful glare. “In this house, we eat no more than twelve hundred calories per day. I expect you to respect that.”

One thousand two hundred calories. For an entire day. For agrown woman. I school my expression, but internally, I’m screaming. That’s barely enough for a sedentary teenager, let alone a woman who—presumably—functions in society.

Mrs. Arnault taps a manicured nail against the island. “That includes breakfast, lunch, dinner. There shouldn’t be any indulgences in between meals.” It sounds like a warning. “Understood?”

I nod, gripping the envelope. “Crystal clear.”

She points toward the archway. “Down the hall—first door’s a bathroom, second is my daughter’s room, and straight ahead, there’s another bathroom.” She pauses for a breath. “Around the corner is my area. Home office, bedroom, the works. And if you’ve made it that far, you’ve gone too far.”

“All I need is here,” I reassure her, gesturing at the kitchen.

“Wonderful. My daughter isn’t home, so you’ll meet her next week. She struggles with her weight, so you’re going to follow my instructions and ignore hers.” Her worried gaze runs over me. “She can be quite...persuasive.”

Oh, well,thatmakes me feel better. I’m not just denying food to a client who doesn’t want it; I’m also keeping it from her overweight child.

Does her kid evenwantto lose weight?

Does this woman understand that a hypocaloric diet doesn’t need to mean food deprivation?

“Is there a problem?”

I wear my most disingenuous smile. “None. Twelve hundred calories a day, no bribes accepted.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but a sound at the front entrance steals her attention. “Looks like you’ll get to meet her tonight.”

Someone—I assume it’s her daughter, walks past the kitchen. I don’t see much of her, but it’s enough to know I’ve grossly misunderstood her, because that woman isthin. Probably thinner than she should be. And she’s not a child.

“Charlotte?”

“What?” she says flatly from the corridor.

“Can you come in here, please?”

There’s a mumbled curse and some shuffling, then she enters the kitchen.

Instinctively, I take a step back, knocking into the counter. I brace myself on it as if it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

Because holyshit.

Charlotte—Mrs. Arnault’s daughter—is Cherry.