Page 9

Chapter Eight

Troy

Jamie’s still passed out on the bed, tangled up with the bartender from Inferno, both of them completely wrecked after last night. I stand in the doorway for a second, smirking at the scene—two bodies sprawled across the sheets, clothes half on, half off. Typical Jamie.

It had been a wild night. We’d both hooked up with the same puck bunny, trading off between the bar, the car, and eventually Jamie’s place. The girl was insatiable, clearly out for some bragging rights.

It was fun, no doubt about it, but now I’m over it. Time to get back to real life.

I leave them to it, hit the shower, and head to the gym. I like my mornings quiet. Just me, my workout, and the weights. No distractions.

It’s the one time I get to clear my head before the season starts up again and everything goes full throttle.

I’m halfway through my reps when my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and see Millie’s name flash. With a grunt, I drop the barbell and swipe to answer, catching my breath.

“Millie, what’s up?” I lean back against the bench, wiping sweat off my face with a towel.

“Troy!” she chirps, her voice too damn cheerful for this early. “I’ve got some news for you.”

I grin, already knowing what she’s about to say. “You got the puppy ready for me?”

I’ve been waiting for this Doberman for weeks. One of Chase’s clients at the clinic had a litter, and I’ve had my eye on the runt since day one. A small one, but a fighter—just like me.

“Not yet,” Millie says, sounding apologetic. “He still needs all his vaccines, but you should be able to pick him up by the end of the week.”

“End of the week, huh?” I grunt, a little disappointed. “Fine. But if Chase is holding out on me just to make sure the dog’s perfect, tell him I’ll kick his ass in one of those boxing matches he’s been bragging about.”

Millie laughs, the sound light and easy. “I’ll let him know you’re getting antsy.”

I’m about to hang up, but she stops me. “Hey, Troy, one more thing. You still have that extra room in your house, right?”

I frown, immediately suspicious. “Yeah, why?”

“Well…” she drags the word out, her tone sweet as honey, and I already think I know where this is going. “How do you feel about having a live-in chef?”

I blink, not sure if I heard her right. “A what ?”

“A chef, Troy,” she repeats. “With the season starting, you could use someone cooking for you. You’ll be so busy, and having someone who can make meals for you would be a lifesaver.”

“I don’t need some random person moving into my house,” I grumble, already annoyed at the idea. “I was gonna turn that room into a home office.”

Millie’s voice softens, switching to her convincing tone. “Come on, Troy. It’s not permanent. Just a trial period. A week. You can see how it goes, and if it doesn’t work out, no harm, no foul.”

I rub the back of my neck, my thoughts already resisting the idea. “A week? That’s it?”

“One week,” she promises. “Her name’s Savannah. She’s been through some tough times, but she’s a great chef. It’d be good for her and good for you.”

I let out a long breath, still not convinced. “I don’t know, Millie. I like my space.”

“And you’ll still have your space,” she insists. “It’s just a week. She’ll cook, you’ll eat, and maybe you’ll find out it’s not so bad having someone around.”

I stare at the wall, thinking it over. Having a chef does sound nice—especially with how crazy the season gets. But the idea of sharing my space with someone, even for a week, feels like an invasion. I’m used to my routine, my quiet mornings, and my mess. But it’s all mine. Everything .

“Fine,” I mutter, shaking my head. “One week. But if this doesn’t work out, she’s gone.”

Millie lets out a little squeal. “Thank you, Troy! I promise you won’t regret it. She can come by this afternoon to meet you, and you two can figure out the details—rent, cooking schedule, all that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, already regretting it a little. “I’ll need to talk to her first. Set the rules straight.”

“Of course,” Millie agrees. “I’ll send her over around four. Be nice, okay?”

“No promises,” I grumble before hanging up.

I sit there for a minute, thinking about what I just agreed to. A live-in chef named Savannah. Great. I hope she’s not some stuck-up, high-maintenance type.

I can’t deal with that shit. If she can keep to herself and cook, we’ll get through this week just fine.

With a sigh, I stand up, grab my towel, and head for the locker room. If I’m going to have a stranger in my house by the afternoon, I’d better get my head straight for it.

***

By the time four o’clock rolls around, I’m pacing my kitchen, second-guessing this entire plan. I’ve been thinking about turning that room into an office for months, but now I’ve got a chef moving in? What the hell was I thinking?

The doorbell rings, and I freeze for a second. This is it.

I open the door, and there she is. Savannah.

She’s not what I expected. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she’s wearing a simple black dress, the kind that doesn’t try too hard but still looks good.

She has this casual confidence about her like she’s used to holding her own in tough situations. Her eyes are a little red, though, like she’s been crying recently, and I wonder if Millie’s right about her having had a rough time.

“Hey,” she says, her voice a little shaky but trying to be strong. “I’m Savannah.”

I nod, stepping aside to let her in. “Troy.”

She walks in, glancing around the space. I can see her taking it all in—the clean kitchen, the open floor plan, the minimalistic setup. No pictures, no clutter. Just how I like it.

“Nice place,” she says, her voice soft.

“Thanks,” I reply, closing the door behind her. “Let’s get one thing straight before we talk about anything else. This is a trial. One week. You cook, you keep to yourself, and we’ll see how it goes. If I don’t like it, you’re out.”

Her eyes widen a little at my bluntness, but she nods. “Got it. One week.”

I motion for her to sit down at the kitchen island, and I take a seat across from her. “Millie said you’re a chef. What’s your deal? You looking for a place to stay long-term?”

She hesitates, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her bag. “Honestly, I just need a place right now. Everything’s been…rough.” She looks down, her voice dropping. “I used to run a restaurant in New York. Lemons. It was going well until…”

“Lemons?” I interrupt, the name sounding vaguely familiar. “Wait…you’re that Savannah Brooks?”

Her face flushes, and she looks like she wants to crawl into a hole. “Yeah. That’s me.”

I sit back, crossing my arms. Well, shit. She’s the chef from that celebrity wedding scandal. The one who poisoned half of Hollywood with bad seafood or something.

“And now you’re here,” I say, still processing.

“Now I’m here,” she says, her voice tight. “I got scammed out of an apartment, and I don’t have anywhere else to go. Millie mentioned you might need help, and I can cook. So here I am.”

I stare at her for a second, feeling a little guilty for how hard I was on her at first. She’s clearly been through the wringer, and even though I’m not exactly thrilled about having someone in my house, I can see she’s desperate.

“All right,” I say, leaning forward. “We’ll do the week. But if I don’t like how it’s going, you’re out. Got it?”

“Got it,” she says quickly. “I’ll do my best not to get in your way.”

I nod, standing up. “Good. You can move in tonight if you want. We’ll figure out rent later.”

She stands up too, looking a little relieved. “Thank you. Seriously. I won’t let you down.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” I mutter, walking her toward the door. “You can take the upstairs guest room. Make yourself at home. Just keep it tidy.”

She gives me a small smile and nods. “I will. Thanks again, Troy.”

I watch her leave, her shoulders a little slumped as she walks out to grab her bags. She’s a tough one, I can tell.

But underneath that, there’s something fragile, something she’s trying to hold together.

As soon as the door closes, I shake my head and head back to the gym. I have no idea what I just got myself into, but it’s only a week.

How bad could it be?