Page 61 of Boss of the Year

Robbie grinned as if I’d asked a trick question. “He’s payingyouto know that for him, babe.”

Right. Of course he was.

Robbie handed me a keycard, sleek and black. “This’ll get you in and out of the building and the suite. Elevator code is 1021.”

I smirked. “That’s easy to remember. It’s my birthday.”

“Farmer’s markets, errands, whatever you need, just call down to the concierge, and Fabiano will be there.”

I looked around the penthouse. The skyline shimmered past the floor-to-ceiling windows like it had no idea how weird my life had just become. Waiting for me to venture into it, alone, and get very, very lost.

Fear pricked the back of my neck.

I turned back to Robbie. “I do need to go to a market. Tomorrow. Would you be willing to come with me? For, um, help carrying things?”

A feeble excuse if there was one, but Robbie had the decency not to comment on it. “Sure. You should have enough things for the morning, but we can go after his main breakfast.”

He left me to explore the kitchen on my own and process exactly how I’d gone from a disappointing date with Daniel to standing on the other side of the world in less than twenty-four hours. Ondine had done brief trips like this with Lucas, but nothing on this scale, and she hadn’t told me how disorienting it was. It felt as if I’d slipped into someone else’s life without warning.

I wandered around the kitchen, running my fingers along the pristine countertops and opening and closing drawers. In one, I found my own knives—myknives, the ones I’d taken with me to Paris and back, including the Japanese gyuto my brother-in-law sent me when I graduated—laid out like ladies’ necklaces. The other equipment was indeed top-of-the-line. Far better than what we had at Prideview, which was saying something.

I opened the refrigerator to find it stocked with the basics: premium proteins, fresh produce, imported dairy. Ondine had sent the list of ingredients ahead of our arrival. Ingredients I would be expected to know off the top of my head in a matter of months.

No time like the present to learn.

My mind drifted to Lucas. Where was he now? A late-night reception, Robbie said, which meant that Lucas was in a suit,maybe even his tux again, looking far too much like James Bond for my comfort level.

My thighs squeezed together as I remembered the exact cut of that jacket, the way it pulled across his shoulders when he held me for a dance. The hints of leather and ink with his indelibly masculine scent.

Did he remember that night too?

Probably not. It was a mistake, like we said.

Sweet Marie.

It still echoed through my mind like a song.

No. That was definitelynotwhy I was here. I was a professional, hired to cook, and that was exactly what I would do.

The next morning,after Lucas blazed through the kitchen at five and again at eight, barely saying hello while I was still prepping for lunch, I texted Robbie.

Ready for that market trip whenever you are.

His response came immediately.

Downstairs in 10.

I changed into something more appropriate for the Brazilian heat—my favorite flowy black pants and a halter top that made me feel like a fifties pin-up star—and headed down to the lobby.

The market was a riot of color and noise, so different from the sterile perfection of the penthouse. Stalls overflowed with exotic fruits, fresh-caught seafood, and spices that perfumed the air.

Despite the fear that had been nipping at me like a terrier since arriving last night, I felt more at ease. Food was a language everyone spoke. “Damn, that’s good”soundsthe same whether you’re speaking English, French, or Portuguese. So does “ew, gross!”, “eh, it’s all right”, or “more please.”

I could do this. I could manage my way through this place even if I didn’t know a lick of Portuguese.

As I shopped, Robbie trailed behind me, occasionally offering translations via his phone but mostly letting me explore.

“Look at this.” I held up a plump red fruit with an oblong shape. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to try some of these.”