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“No, it’s not delivered.” I can hear Martin shuffling papers in the background. “Again, we talked about this. You need a personal chef. If you’re going to live like a recluse out there, you need someone to take care of you.”
“That’s what Maggie is for.”
Maggie is the housekeeper who comes in once a week and cleans everything from top to bottom, except my office. She worked for the previous owner and stayed on for the past two years when I bought the place.
My house is out on Lake Travis outside of Austin. I own five acres and over three hundred feet of lakefront of an inlet on the Colorado arm of the lake. There’s been a house on this lot since the ’50s, which is the only reason the lot is so big. The old house was demolished and replaced by a three-story limestone and glass structure that follows the curve of the cliff. The north wing of the house holds my workout room on the ground floor, my bedroom on the second, and my office on the third. The rest of the house is open concept, which means from my spot in the kitchen, I can see every square inch of my house that’s not my private wing. It’s the perfect house for throwing a Gatsbyesque party. Or for living like an over-paid recluse.
Wanna guess which one I am?
Even now that I live here full time, I never see Maggie. She comes on Wednesdays and the only sign I have that she’s been here is the faint scent of pine when I come down from my office on Wednesday evenings.
“Maggie doesn’t cook,” Martin says evenly. “And you should just give up now because I already hired Savannah. It’s a done deal. She’s contracted to make you three meals a day for the next year.”
A suspicion creeps into the back of my mind. Besides the house, there’s a pool and guest house on the property tucked away in the trees.
“Three meals a day?” I ask. “Where exactly would this person be preparing these three meals a day?”
Martin gives a beleaguered sigh. “Stop asking questions you already know the answer to, especially when you don’t want to know the answer to them.”
“So some woman is just living in my guest cottage now?”
“No. Not some woman. An extremely talented professional chef who is paid to live in your guest house.”
“Unacceptable. Even if I was willing to have a full-time chef, she can’t live here.”
“Dude, you live thirty-five minutes away from the closest place of business. And that’s a Valero. Having her live on site is nonnegotiable. Otherwise, she’d spend half her damn day driving back-and-forth. Besides which, those roads are winding and poorly lit. She can’t make you dinner at night and then drive back to Austin. You have no clue how lucky I am to have found a chef of her caliber who's willing to cook for you out there. So don’t fuck this up.”
“You know how much I hate being around strangers.”
“Look, I know that shit with Ava last year was a nightmare. But this woman will not talk to the press. I swear to God. She signed an NDA. I wrote her contract myself. You won’t even know she’s there. All you have to do is communicate with her via text and let her know your food preferences. As long as you’re not hanging out in the kitchen waiting for her to show up with meals, you’ll never even see her.”
“I swear to God, Martin, if this shit backfires on me, I will find a lawyer better than you and sue you for everything you’re worth.”
“Good luck with that. There are no lawyers better than me.”
“Arrogant fucker.”
“Damn straight. Now, just text the woman. Let her know what you want for lunch. And you can thank me later.”
Martin hangs up on me before I reply. Or tell him that if he mentions that shit with Ava again, I’ll cut his balls off. Asshole.
I toss my phone on the kitchen counter and pick up the smoothie. I reread the note while I’m drinking it. What the fuck is up with the heart over the ‘i’?
What is she, twelve?
I finish the smoothie, leave the cup in the sink, and head up to my home gym. After forty-five minutes on my erg machine and a shower, I’m feeling a little less grumpy.
It’s not until I’m headed upstairs to my office that I realize I left my phone in the kitchen. When I grab it, I see four work messages and six from an unknown number, which I soon realize is the number from the note.
Hi! Martin said you’re usually up by seven, so I hope the smoothie was to your liking.
I’m heading to the grocery store in a bit, so if you can send me a quick list of your dietary preferences, I can pick up food for the next couple of days.
Also, please let me know if you will have any guests so that I can plan accordingly.
Let me know what time you would like lunch and dinner and I will have them there in the warming drawer waiting for you.
By the way, my name is Savannah.
