Page 41 of With a Cherry On Top

The apartment is empty,the hum of the fridge the only sound as I set my bag down and pull out the ingredients I brought: duck, oranges, fennel, shallots, fresh thyme, and a head of garlic.

I’m making duck confit, which means hours of prep before it even touches the oven. The legs need to be trimmed, salted, and cured with aromatics before they cook in their own fat. While that’s happening, I’ll prep an orange-fennel sauce and a crisp salad to cut through the richness.

I’m excited to be here early, and while I tell myself it’s just because I like having enough time to cook, to do things right, that’s not the whole truth.

I’m looking forward to seeing her.

Charlotte.

The way the air shifts around her, like she drags in electricity without even trying. It’s ridiculous, really. We spent several hours chatting last night. About her favorite song, “Dreams” by Midnight Reckless, and about the best trip she ever went on—a getaway to a small Italian island where she saw the most beautiful sunsets of her life. She asked about my demonic cat, and about my daughter.

She shouldn’t be this interesting—she’s too young for that. And it shouldn’t feel so easy to talk to her, but it does. It’s not like talking to a friend, but neither is it like getting to know a stranger. It’s a feeling I can’t compare to anything I’ve ever experienced before.

I begin seasoning the duck legs with crushed garlic, fresh thyme, and a touch of orange zest, and when I hear the door opening, my heartbeat kicks into overdrive. There’s a low murmur, a breathy laugh. It’s Charlotte, definitely, but not just her. There’s a man’s voice too.

I freeze, listening. The footsteps are unhurried as they move through the house, and I catch a glimpse of them when they reach the arch that leads into the corridor.

They’re pressed together, her back against the wall, his hands on her hips. His mouth on her neck.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.

Something in my chest twists, sharp and sudden, before I can shove it down.

I don’t move. I should make a sound, announce myself,something. Instead, I stand there like an idiot, stuck between wanting to make them stop and wanting to disappear.

They’re too lost in each other to notice me, her fingers tangled in his hair, his hands roaming her waist. She snickers again and something dangerously close to jealousy coils in my gut.

I’vegotto make it stop.

I clear my throat, and in the silence, it lands like a drop of ink in water—small, but impossible to ignore.

Charlotte startles, her head snapping up, while the man’s hands drop from her body like he just realized it’s on fire.

“You’re here,” she says tentatively.

“Yeah.” I arrange the duck legs on a tray, covering them with plastic wrap. The last thing I need is for her to see something in my face that I shouldn’t be feeling.

Hercompanionsteps forward, hands tucked in his pockets. Blond, clean-shaven, expensive-looking sweater draped over his shoulders. He studies the kitchen with casual disinterest before settling his attention on me.

“Your mom got a chef?” he asks, then nods to Charlotte. “Good for you.”

“Let’s go to my room, Peter. We have an hour before Beatrice comes back home.”

One hour.

Her. With him. In her room.

A sour twist tightens inside me. I shouldn’t care—IknowI shouldn’t—but the thought makes me nauseous, a bitter taste creeping up the back of my throat.

He doesn’t move right away. Instead he steps closer to the counter, eyes shifting to the food I’m preparing. “One sec,” he tells her before pointing a finger at me. “Mind making us some snacks?”

Do I mind making Peter some snacks? I do, actually.

“He’s not going to cook for you,” Charlotte says, rolling her eyes.

“Why not?”

“Because my mom has given him very clear instructions, and yoursnacksaren’t part of that.”