Page 1 of Cakes for the Grump

ONE

I’m escortedinto business mogul Luke Abbot’s home office, away from the eyes of his assistant, but close enough for him to call security if that’s where this meeting is going. An overreaction considering what my crime is.

Cake.

As a meal prep chef, it’s my job to cook or bake whatever my clients want me to. I’m the person wealthy people hire to meal prep their week’s worth of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, making them feel as if they are independent because technically they open all these meals out of containers themselves.

Most days I make boring chicken dinners and prep smoothies…and occasionallycake.

I walk inside his office. Masculine wealth is everywhere—cognac leather, dark oak, furbished copper accents. The space is darkly painted, has built-in bookshelves full of heavily bounded texts, and showcases no obvious touches of warmth. No personal photos, no art, no carpet.

Stepping into the center of the room, I face my summoner. It takes every bit of discipline I’ve got for me to ignore his looks.

He remains seated behind a concrete slab of a desk; anything to separate him from plebeians unlucky enough to occupy the same space as him. Nobody speaks, and he raises an eyebrow potentially recognizing theimmediate power struggle going on between us or in reaction to how I’ve crossed my arms so stiffly.

It’s also awkward because there is a lot of staring.

This is our first physical meeting.

I wish his sleeves weren’t rolled up to the elbow as if he’s been working for hours already.Forearm porn is not an indicator of morality, I stoutly remind myself.Though his would qualify easily if it was.As my eyes track upward, I decide I dislike his hair. It’s not surfer blonde, but paler—making the combination of his skin and hair a stark canvas for those cold blue-gray eyes. Piercing kind of stare he has. Anybody else would squirm under it, but I’ve already had such a bad week so I won’t. Neither will I categorize him as handsome, well-built, or hot in a Raphael-fallen-doomed-angel kind of way.

Instead, I guess at what he sees: my face (perpetually rosy cheeks), hair (big messy-chic bun full of dark thickness), collared button-up shirt not skimming but flaring away from my body, dark jeans, casual runners. Whatever.

Also, I’m bigger.

Not because I have a big bum, large breasts, and a petite waist. That isn’t my kind of curvy, and frankly, such proportion ratios aren’t common in my experience. No, I’m generous all over, including a lovable stomach, strong thighs, and arms that jiggle lightly when I cook.

“Ms. Singh,” says Luke.

“Call me Rita,” I automatically quip before I can stop myself, and then, softly, “Damn it.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t offer the familiarity of his first name. I bet he’s the type who gets off on being calledMr. Abboteverywhere he goes.

“Have a seat.” He gestures to the armchair beside me.

“No, thank you.” I want to get out of here as quickly as possible, go home, and keep trying to figure out how I’m going to survive in this city since I no longer have a job or a company to sponsor my work visa. Last week I got an email from my company informing me that I was fired and no longer employed as a meal prep chef in Barcelona.

“Fine,” says Luke. “If you won’t sit, let’s get down to business.”

“Excellent idea.”

“It is my understanding that not only have you been terminated, but that after that fact, you left behind a cake in my kitchen even though myexplicit instructions have been to not include sugar in any of my meals.” He leans back in his opulent throne (big leather chair) and pinches the bottom curve of his jaw with a forefinger and thumb as if in contemplation. “One might assume you have difficulties following instructions.”

On the last day of work, I accidentally left three tiers of chocolate goodness behind in his kitchen. But why summon me like this? Why not give the cake away, and quietly switch to using another meal prep chef provided by my ex-employer?

My guess? It’s because he’s evil. Though we’ve never met in person before since my job is to discreetly make meals in his stunning penthouse kitchen and then scurry away before he gets home from the office, I have heard about Luke Abbot before.

He’s the CEO of Abbot Industries, a media empire originally founded by his father, Otto Abbot. My opinion? The company is basically a propaganda machine catering to the 1% of society, making sure power remains in the hands of the few. Everyone knows their news channels, magazines, and online websites profit from false reporting and outrage. The media they put out into the world is meant to sensationalize and divide people. So why did I meal prep for a dastardly person like Luke Abbot? Simple. I had to pay my bills somehow.

“The cake was a mistake,” I defend with a smile, “and not reflective of my professional abilities or the caliber of food I’ve prepped for you in the past. Out of curiosity, have you been enjoying the Mediterranean salads I’d prepped for you in advance for this week?”

“A man of principle might have tossed them away.”

Toss them away…

He wouldn’t have. I’ve never?—