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“You don’t like my house?”
That smirk tells me he knows I’m head over heels for this house. I clear my throat, struggling to find the words. “I’ve never been in a house this big before. I don’t know where to look or what to do, and I feel very, very small.”
It’s the truth. In my tiny town in Iowa, the wealthiest family lives in a two-story Tudor on a mediocre lake. This place is grander than any private home I visited in New York or the Bay Area during my internship.
“Hey,” he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Calm down. You live here now.”
So much of me doesn’t want to believe that. Why would I even be allowed to eat in a place like this, let alone live here? And yet I know Jason isn’t messing with me.
“Sure,” I say, feeling the thrill of him weaving his fingers through mine as he leads me under the arch in front of us. “The girl with just enough first and last month’s rent saved up in her checking account to get an apartment over a nail salon an hour away from the city. Sure. I definitely live here now.”
“I don’t know what you’re babbling about, but I’m pretty sure it’s time to feed you,” Jason says.
When we enter the kitchen, I burst into tears.
“Hey. Hey, what’s going on?” His arms go around me as I gawk at everything. The marble countertops. The hand-carved vent hood. The stainless steel. The range itself costs more than triple my life savings—I know because I pinned that motherfucker the moment I knew I was going to become a chef. And there’s a damn scullery off to one side that’s bigger than the bedroom of the house I grew up in.
The magnitude of what I’ve walked into, this wealth and privilege, it’s too much to absorb. “What…am I doing here…with you?”
Jason is genuinely amused. “Should I make you another to-do list? First, I’m gonna cook for you. Then, you’ll clean your plate and drink your wine on the patio. After that, we shower, and then I put you to bed. Understand?”
I swipe away a tear and nod.
“Good. Have a seat, now,” he says, gesturing to one of the luxuriously cushioned barstools at a marble island on which you could play doubles tennis. I slide onto the stool, and my bones relax. Somehow, having everything simplified makes me feel better.
Do I actually like having everything decided for me? I’m not going to lie; having the pressure off me has an easing effect.
Jason moves deftly through the kitchen, gliding from the fridge to the stove, from the butcher block prep area to the scullery. “Hope you like salmon,” he says, firing up the broiler.
Me? I’d happily eat Chef Boyardee straight out of the can—cold—after a hard day at work.
“Is this a normal thing for you? You just cook a whole-ass meal for yourself from scratch when you get home from work after cooking all day?”
Most chefs I know won’t admit it to the general public, but they eat absolute garbage on their personal time. I’ve dated and been friends with enough of them to know that Pop-Tarts and potato chips play a prominent role in most of their home kitchens.
He laughs as he drizzles the salmon filets with lemon juice and oil. “I haven’t cooked all day in ages, though. It was fun to get back into it.”
I stare at his back curiously. “What do you mean, you don’t normally cook every day for work? You’re a chef.”
He shoves the salmon in the oven, pulls out a head of butter lettuce from the crisper, and proceeds to make homemade dressing.
“I am,” he says, dicing a sweet bell pepper in about ten seconds flat. “But I’m a restaurateur most days. Cash and I have been in business together for a while now, and most of my time is spent traveling around to all our restaurants, going over menus, and training and recruiting executive chefs. I don’t often sweat it out in the kitchen anymore.”
Jason goes on to tell me all about how Cash and he met while waiting tables, and ended up as roommates to save money while planning to go into business opening their own sandwich shop. Investors eventually came through as Jason worked his way up to sous chef, and started to win awards. From there, they went on to buy a local barbecue place that was in financial trouble, then it was a steakhouse, and then another. Now they own a dozen or more upscale restaurants all over the metroplex.
He slides a glass of wine over to me.
“Accolades are great, but it’s nicer not having to work myself to death like my father did. I was lucky to meet Cash. He knows finance and management. I’m the food and ideas guy.”
The aroma of broiled salmon has me salivating, and the wine makes me pleasantly buzzed on an empty stomach.
“That’s done,” he says, the oven door slamming shut as he plates up our dinners. “Let’s go to the patio.”
I follow him out of the kitchen and down the hall to a sitting room at the back of the house lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. He flips a switch on the wall, and the windows slide open, effectively turning the whole sitting room into part of the patio. The outdoor “patio” is a terraced paradise filled with raised garden beds, vining flowers, lush furniture, and a waterfall fountain. All of it overlooks a pool with a covered bar and barbecue area.
“So. You think you can tolerate me enough to live here?”
He must be joking. “I could spend days exploring and never see you,” I say.
