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Chapter Ten

Savannah

His eyes are unreadable, but I can feel the intensity behind them.

Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his T-shirt, and I have to force myself not to stare. “Let’s get down to numbers.”

I pause, trying to read his face. I mean, I expected him to negotiate, maybe lowball me since this is just a trial week. But the way he’s looking at me, calm and confident, makes me think he’s got something else in mind.

“What are you thinking?” I ask, wiping my hands on my apron and trying to keep it casual.

He crosses his arms, his muscles flexing slightly, and says, “Three thousand a week.”

My jaw almost hits the floor. “What?”

“Three grand,” he repeats, like it’s nothing. “I know what chefs make. And I want the best.”

I blink, trying to process the number. That’s…a lot of money for one week. I mean, holy shit. “That’s…generous,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “But, uh, are you sure?”

He smirks, nodding. “You’re good, Savannah. I read all about you before… everything. I know it. Plus, it’s only a week, right? I’ll pay you that, and if it works out, we’ll talk about something more long-term.”

I swallow, still reeling. “Okay. I can work with that.”

“Good,” he says, standing up and stretching. “Now, let’s talk about the cooking arrangements.”

“Right,” I say, snapping back to reality. “I’ll make breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I can do meal prep too, if you need it.”

“Fine by me,” he says. “But just so you know, I’m not picky. As long as it’s healthy and keeps me in shape for the season, we’re good. Oh, and no allergies.”

“Got it,” I say, mentally noting everything. “Any preferences? Like, do you want a specific kind of cuisine or...”

He shakes his head. “Just make it good. And healthy. I’m not really into fancy shit, but I trust you know what you’re doing.”

I nod, feeling a little more at ease. “Okay, great. I’ll need to do some shopping, though. I’ll stock up the kitchen and get what I need to start cooking tomorrow.”

“Sure,” he says, without hesitation, pulling out his wallet and handing me a credit card. “Get whatever you need.”

I stare at the card for a second before taking it. This is wild . I’ve never had someone hand me their credit card like it’s no big deal. But Troy just shrugs it off like it’s nothing, like dropping cash is just a normal Tuesday for him.

“Thanks,” I say, slipping it into my pocket.

“I’ve got to head out for a bit,” Troy says, checking his watch. “I’ll be back around nine. We can catch up later.”

I nod, trying to act casual as he grabs his bag from the counter. “Sounds good.”

As he heads toward the door, I decide to ask the question I’ve been wondering about since I got here. “So, what do you do? Millie mentioned something about hockey.”

He pauses, turning back to me with a smirk. “I play professional hockey. Chicago Icebreakers. Jamie and I are both on the team.”

I freeze, my stomach doing a flip. Hockey . Of course. Just the mention of it brings back memories of my dad: the constant games, the pressure, his obsession with winning. I feel sick just thinking about it.

“You okay?” Troy asks, raising an eyebrow.

I force a smile, shaking my head. “Yeah, I just…I don’t really do sports.”

He chuckles, nodding. “Fair enough. We’ll talk more tonight. I’ll see you later.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving me alone in his massive, minimalist penthouse. I stand there for a moment, staring at the door, trying to process everything.

Troy’s a professional athlete . Jamie too. Great. The one thing I’ve been trying to avoid my whole life, and now I’m smack in the middle of it.

I take a deep breath, walking over to the windows that overlook the Chicago skyline. The view is incredible—endless buildings stretching out as far as I can see, with the lake in the distance. It’s beautiful, and it reminds me how lucky I am to even be here. Millie really came through for me.

But… fuck . Troy is so hot. Broad-shouldered and muscular, with messy dark brown hair and piercing green eyes. It’s hard to concentrate when he’s around, especially when he’s offering me three thousand a week to stay in his gorgeous penthouse and cook for him.

And then there’s Jamie—lean and athletic, with those tattoos down his arms and that cocky grin plastered on his face. How the hell did I end up here?

I laugh to myself, shaking my head. Jared’s cock must’ve messed with my head because there’s no other explanation for why two insanely hot guys are turning me into a complete puddle.

I glance around the penthouse again. It’s sparsely decorated, almost too neat. The furniture is modern, all clean lines and neutral colors. No clutter, no personal touches. It’s like a model home, not a place where someone actually lives.

The kitchen, where I’ll be spending most of my time, is spotless, with every appliance gleaming like it’s barely been used. Troy definitely wasn’t lying about not cooking.

I hope he likes me enough to want me to stay longer than a week. This place is incredible, and I wouldn’t mind having a stable situation for once. Millie was so nice to set this up, and I can’t help but feel like I owe her big time.

With nothing else to do, I head to the guest room to unpack.

The first time I walked in here, I thought he had messed up. It’s huge.

The room is just as neat as the rest of the penthouse—simple, with a big bed, a nightstand, and a sleek dresser. The bedding is crisp and white, and there’s a window that looks out over the city.

It’s not exactly cozy, but it’s perfect for a temporary stay. The closet is huge, bigger than anything I’ve ever had in New York, and as I start to unpack my clothes, I can’t help but feel a little relieved. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Once my clothes are put away, I sit on the edge of the bed, glancing around. It’s strange being here, in this new life, with everything I own crammed into a few suitcases. A week ago, I was a mess, my career ruined, my life in shambles. Now, I’m standing in this luxury penthouse, about to start over.

I just hope it works out.

I head downstairs, scrolling through my phone as I go. A bunch of texts from Layla pop up, but I ignore them for now. I love her, but she’s probably just hounding me about my disastrous life again, and I’m not in the mood.

Instead, I Google, “Troy Chicago Icebreakers”, curious to know more about the man who just dropped three grand on me for cooking.

The first thing that pops up is his player profile: Troy Adams. Right Wing for Chicago Icebreakers. There are all these articles about how private he is. He has all these endorsement deals that have added to his billionaire status. And he is only thirty-one years old.

Billionaire? Well, that explains the penthouse. I scroll through the rest of the search results, tapping on a few articles and highlight reels.

I don’t know much about hockey—scratch that, I know nothing about hockey—but I’m intrigued by the way he moves on the ice. Fast, precise, and completely in control as his purple number 9 jersey flies in the wind.

I click on a highlight video and watch him glide across the rink, slamming into opponents, scoring goal after goal. Even though I have no idea what’s happening, it’s…captivating. My eyes stay glued to the screen, and before I know it, two hours have passed.

Shit. I quickly close the app, shaking my head. Focus, Savannah. I need to come up with a plan for the week. Something simple, healthy, and easy to prep.

I grab a notepad from the kitchen drawer and start scribbling down ideas: salads, grilled chicken, maybe some quinoa…

But then I hear something. A noise. What is that?

I stop, listening, my heart pounding a little faster. It’s faint, but definitely there. A ringing sound. I glance around before realizing it’s the doorbell.

I rush to the front door, half expecting Troy to be back early or Jamie to have forgotten something. But when I open it, there’s no one there. Just…a baby. A baby in a bassinet.

“What the actual fuck?” I mutter, looking around wildly. Is this a joke?

I step out onto the porch, peering down the hallway, expecting to see someone lurking, but there’s no one. Just this baby. In a freaking bassinet. There’s also a bag beside him.

My heart starts racing. I have no idea what to do. I look down at the baby, and he’s staring up at me with wide, innocent blue eyes. He’s tiny. Then—of course—he starts to cry.

“Shit,” I whisper, bending down and carefully picking him up. He’s warm and soft, and I awkwardly cradle him against my chest, trying to remember everything I’ve seen in movies about how to hold babies. “It’s okay, it’s okay…please stop crying.”

The baby wails louder, and I feel a wave of panic crash over me. What the hell am I supposed to do? I glance at the bag and quickly open it, hoping for some kind of clue. Inside, there’s a small diaper, some wipes, and a folded piece of paper. I pull it out, my hands trembling slightly.

It’s a birth certificate. The name on it reads , Noah Breaker.

I stare at the name, my brain not really processing it, and then I notice there’s also an envelope with Troy and Jamie written on the front. My stomach drops. Oh, fuck no.

I step back inside, holding the baby— Noah —in one arm as I struggle to keep him from crying. He’s clearly been abandoned here. Just left on Troy’s doorstep.

“Okay, okay, Noah, shh…” I whisper, bouncing him gently, trying to calm him down. I’m not exactly maternal, but there’s something in me that clicks into place. The baby needs me. I have to figure this out.

I carry him over to the couch, sitting down and rocking him softly. He’s still fussing, but his cries are getting quieter. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have any formula, and the bag only has one diaper. I glance at the clock. It’s a little after eight. Troy said he’d be back around nine. I just need to hold on until then. We’ll figure this out together.

I start walking around the living room, cradling Noah in my arms. His little head rests against my chest, and after a few minutes, he starts to settle down. I check his diaper, and sure enough, it’s dirty. Of course.

“All right, little man,” I say, heading back to the bag to grab the wipes and diaper. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

It’s a disaster, but I somehow manage to change him on the floor with the one diaper I have. He’s not crying anymore, just staring up at me with big eyes, like he’s trying to figure me out. I smile down at him, my heart doing this weird fluttery thing.

“Better?” I ask softly.

He babbles something, his tiny hands grabbing at the air, and I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t know what I’m doing either.”

I pick him up again, holding him close as I pace around the penthouse. My mind is racing, thinking about what to do next.

I can’t leave the house with a baby, especially not one I don’t know. But he needs formula, probably food too. And then there’s the envelope. What the hell does Troy have to do with this?

I glance at the clock again. Just an hour to go. Then Troy will be back, and we can figure this mess out together. Until then, I just have to keep Noah happy and calm. Easier said than done.

I walk over to the window, staring out at the skyline. The view is breathtaking, the city stretching out before me, lights twinkling in the distance. Troy is obviously very wealthy, but I already knew that.

This penthouse is sleek, modern, and way too neat. There’s barely anything personal here—no pictures, no clutter. It’s like a showroom, not a home. Especially not for a baby.

In fact, the only warmth in the place right now is this baby in my arms.

I look down at Noah, who’s now half-asleep, his little hand gripping my shirt. My heart aches for him. Whoever left him here must’ve been desperate, but why? And why leave him for Troy and Jamie?

Why both of them?

I sit down on the couch, gently rocking him, my mind spinning with questions. I just hope Troy comes back soon because I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do.

I pull out my phone and start looking at Christmas cocktail recipes. I want to practice making them before the holiday season this time.

The last time I tried making mulled wine it came out all…weird. I want to be better prepared this year.

I frown a little as I realize that I don’t really know anyone to invite over to try out Christmas cookies or mulled wine or anything else that I choose to do to celebrate the holidays.

That thought is kind of depressing. I think of my dad, and then turn my mind away from that.

No, I’m not going to pull my dad back into my life. He’s where he wants to me and I’m…well…working on it. I don’t need his help.

It’s not like he’d be able to offer my any assistance anyway. He was always telling me that cooking wasn’t a job.

“Maybe he was right,” I whisper to the baby in my arms.

I close my eyes and think about a future like this, only warmer and cozy. I’d have a charming little house with a big fireplace, a huge Christmas tree in the corner, stockings for all the kids hanging on the mantle, my most recent little one nestled against me like this, but a troupe of kids sleeping upstairs, waiting for Santa.

I think of Jared. Would that be the kind of man I finally settled down with? Some bigshot lawyer with a big salary so that I could be a stay-at-home mom and bake cookies and wrap presents?

I didn’t know, and the thought made me a little sad. I hadn’t thought much past Lemons. I had been solely focused on making it a success.

With that goal erased, however, I couldn’t stop obsessing about “fixing” this Christmas, making it special, and moving toward a future that included some things I didn’t even know I had been missing out on.

I look down at the little bundle of love in my arms and smile. Like this.

Time drags on, and every little noise makes me jump. I keep checking the clock, counting down the minutes until Troy returns. The baby shifts in my arms, his tiny face peaceful now.

I run my fingers through his soft hair, my panic slowly ebbing into something else—something maternal that I didn’t expect to feel.

I can do this, I tell myself. Just a little longer.

And then, the door opens.

I look up, relief flooding me as Troy steps inside. His eyes immediately lock on me—and the baby in my arms. His expression goes from confusion to shock in a split second.

“What the fuck?” he breathes, walking closer, his eyes wide. “Savannah…what’s going on? Do you have a baby?”

I shake my head as I look at the sleeping baby in my arms. “No, Troy. I don’t have a baby, but I think that you might.”