Page 32 of With a Cherry On Top

Like a window cracked open after years of stale air.

CHAPTER 7

Preheat the Drama

Everything is clean and in order, and my first day is officially over. It seems that Beatrice appreciated lunchanddinner—braised lamb shanks slow-cooked until tender and served over creamy-sans-the-cream mashed potatoes, with roasted carrots glazed in honey and thyme. She made a polite comment about the flavors, nothing overly enthusiastic but enough to let me know she enjoyed it. Charlotte, on the other hand, barely said a word. She picked at her plate, eating in small bites.

When dinner was over, the women went their separate ways. At some point while I was cleaning, I heard the front door open and close, but I have no idea who left.

I glance around the kitchen for the millionth time, making sure everything is back in its place and spotless. Satisfied, I grab my bag and head for the door.

Who would’ve expected this job to be so emotionally taxing?

It should be simple—cook, clean up, get paid. But something about this house, about the way Beatrice and Charlotte barely interact, how meals feel more like obligations than moments to enjoy—it’s all very unsettling.

And then there’s Charlotte.

Gorgeous, mysterious Charlotte who I should stop thinking about.

I take the stairs down, figuring I could use the workout. The usher at the front gives me his usual glare as I pass and I nod at him, adjusting my grip on my bag, then stepping outside.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I open my texts and tap on Amelie’s name.

Aaron

Tell your husband dinner went by smoothly. I’m off.

Amelie

Congratulations on a successful first day.

Aaron

How was yours?

Amelie

The producer asked me to “raise my voice if I feel the need to.”

Aaron

Did you?

Amelie

Please. By the end of this, the Preston name will no longer be associated with culinary dictatorship. Maybe puppies and rainbows.

Aaron

Good for you. Say hi to Ian.

“Texting your wife?”

I look up, and there she is—Charlotte, perched on the steps, knees pulled to her chest, a cigarette dangling lazily between her fingers. A faint ember burns at the tip as she takes a drag, andthe the late afternoon sun casts a warm, honeyed light across the curl of her lips.

So she’s the one who left the house.

“I...” I clear my throat, slipping my phone into my pocket. How come whenever she’s around I’m tenser than I’ve ever been? “A friend, actually.”