Page 42 of With a Cherry On Top

He snorts. “Models, am I right?”

The way he says it. Like he’s bored of fucking models left and right, and I’m supposed to somehow relate to that. Like Charlotte is just another body he’s entertaining himself with, and he assumes I think the same way.

This is the guy Charlotte was talking about with her friends, isn’t it? The Maserati owner with a jet who’s an important photographer. He looks to be in his early thirties.

I tighten my grip on the wooden spoon in my hand, imagining how satisfying it would be to shove it straight into his smug mouth.

“How about you make us some drinks, then?” he tries, and Charlotte lifts her arms in exasperation before she heads toward the hallway.

He leans in, lowering his voice. “Make them extra heavy, all right? I could use some help getting her loosened up.”

Whatdid he just say?

Anger unfurls in my gut. Of course he’s one of those pricks. Guys who think alcohol is a shortcut to consent, who believe women are just obstacles to maneuver around rather than people with agency.

I set another pan on the fire. “Well, that changes everything,” I say, my tone light. Let him think I’m going along with it for just a second.

He waits, but when I don’t move from the stove, he scoffs and extracts a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. “Come on. Man to man.”

I let out a sardonic laugh.Man to man.

I finally meet his gaze head-on, leaning with both hands against the counter. “You’re not a man,” I say. “You’re a boy.”

His features pinch, lips parting in stunned offense. “The fuck is your problem?”

“Amandoesn’t ply women with alcohol so they’ll sleep with him. Amanrespects their partner enough to let them choose what they want, without manipulation or games. He knows that true intimacy is built on mutual respect, not pressure.”

Peter’s jaw tightens, his entitled little brain slow on the uptake. He straightens, puffing his chest slightly.

“You know, I could get you fired,” he finally says.

I smirk. “Could you?”

Somehow I really doubt that if he relayed this conversation to Beatrice, I’d come out a loser.

I push away from the counter. “I suggest you get out of my face and go entertain Charlotte howevershewants you to.”

He shifts his weight, swallowing. I can tell he’s used to people deferring to him, to women bending under the weight of his charm, to men nodding along to whatever bullshit he spews. But I’m not one of his frat buddies. I don’t owe him anything.

“And I recommend you don’t take it a single step further than what she’s comfortable with.” My voice drops lower. “Because,man to man, your last name or your money won’t help you if you do.”

His nostrils flare, but he says nothing.

“Peter?” Charlotte calls, her voice cutting through the tension.

We both turn where she’s standing by the entrance, arms crossed and gaze flicking between us. I don’t know how much of this she’s heard, but I hope it’s a lot.

“Are you coming?”

He scoffs, swallowing whatever he was about to say. “I am.” He winks at me. “And so is she,buddy.”

Fuck me. There is absolutely no way I’ll stand here while he does whatever he’s planning to do in that room. Not after what he said.

“Afraid Beatrice is on her way,” I say as he steps toward her. Charlotte’s reluctant gaze is on me as I raise my phone. “She just texted.”

“Really?” she asks. How do I just know she doesn’t believe me for a second?

“Yep. Just a minute ago.” I focus on Peter. “So you should go. Now.”