Page 30 of With a Cherry On Top

She nods. “Too much food.”

I glance down at the pan, at the child-sized portion of pasta cooling in the sauce. My jaw clenches. When I turn back to her, she’s still at the sink, scrubbing away any evidence of her friends’ presence.

“Sorry. About what I said.”

“Huh?” I frown. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s notfine.” She sets a glass down. “I want those girls to like me so much I don’t even bother to question whether I likemyselfwhen I’m with them.” A humorless chuckle escapes her. “Trust me, I don’t judge people based on their money or their job.”

I watch her for a moment, her delicate hands wiping down the counter, then flick the burner off.

“I mean it,” she says with a slight shrug. “I’m a whore after all.”

I freeze, my grip tightening on the handle of the pan.

“That’s not true.” The words tumble out instinctively, my throat tightening around them. “You’re not a whore.”

“Sure I am.” Charlotte wipes a glass, her movements steady. She sets it on the counter then lifts her chin, meeting my eyes. “I take my clothes off for money. I make men orgasm, do whatever they ask me to. I’m not ashamed of it.”

Silence stretches between us.

“At least I make my own money. Like you.” She nods toward the hallway. “Those girls? Daughters of rich people. They’ll never get it.”

Sothat’swhy she moonlights on TOP. She wants her own money. “Is that what you want to do for the rest of your life?”

Her glare is murderous. “Is cooking for my mom whatyouwant to do for the rest ofyourlife?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t mean?—”

“No, no.” She lifts a hand, mockingly polite. “Please, I insist,save mefrom this terrible cycle of prostitution I’m stuck in.” Her eyes harden as she grabs the glasses and shoves them back into the cabinet.

“That’s not what I meant,” I reaffirm. “I just...”

One of her brows arches, daring me to continue.

“I saw the art equipment in your room.”

“You did?” Her eyes narrow. “I hardly move my camera around during lives.”

Shit, shit, shit.

She seems to shake the thought away with a shrug. “Well, it’s a hobby.” Her lips purse. “You know...things you do because they’re fun?”

“Got it.” She wipes the counter once more, ensuring not a single crumb remains, while I dish the pasta onto the plates, glancing at her for approval. She assesses the portions, then reluctantly nods.

That has to be . . . three ounces for two people.

It’s despicable.

I shouldn’t push. I shouldn’t care. But for some reason, I do.

“Why do you want to be friends with those girls?” I shrug. “I mean, if you don’t like them.”

“Because,” she says as she drops the cloth on the counter, “when you’re starving, even poison is better than nothing.”

The words settle like a stone in my chest, cold and sharp. She’s not just talking about food, I know that. The way she says it, like she’s too used to taking whatever scraps are left and pretending they’re enough, makes my heart clench.

What the hell is going on in this household?