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I stare at the guy who looks more like a club bouncer stuffed into a nice suit than a security guard. “Uh, yeah...” I hand over my ID and he takes it, arching an eyebrow at me as if still waiting and I try to make words.. “Cooking?” That’s my business, right? This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I’m so out of my depths I’m off balance and uncomfortable.
He nods his head and hands back my ID. “Have a great day, Ms. Skye.”
With that, he closes the window and the gate in front of me swings open. I swallow hard and drive forward, keeping on the one-lane black concrete road leading up to a mansion of a house. I lean forward to stare at the bright, sparkling home covered in windows framed by dark wood and black metal. My mouth drops open, and I pull up into the courtyard of a drive and kill the engine of my car.
I’ve never felt so out of place as I do when I open my door and get out of my car. I’ve worked with wealthy individuals before, but this home makes the people I’ve worked for before seem like peasants.
Clutching my purse tight to my body as if the leather will offer some support, I make my way to the front door. I stop, lifting my hand to knock, before remembering the code on the paper Laurel had given me. Checking the numbers, I face the silver faceplate. Reaching for it, I see the numbers lit up in the metal and put in the code.
The unmistakable sound of the door unlocking makes me jump, and I turn to face the huge front entrance. Pushing the door open, I step inside, instantly overtaken by the sheer size of the place. Graceful wooden beams tower overhead and natural light streams through windows as I inhale.
“Ah, you’re here.”
I meet the owner of the rich, thick voice’s gray gaze. His thick black hair shines in the bright light and his eyes seem slightly narrowed as he studies me.
I walk up to him, offering my hand. “I’m -”
“Alisha Skye.” His hand meets mine and a shiver sneaks down my spine at the warmth and power in his grip. As his attention stays locked on me, I sense he’s digging deep to ferret out my secrets - joke’s on him, I’m a master at hiding them.
“You may call me Charles.” He releases my hand and puts both hands behind his back, his gaze searching my face, then sweeping down my body and back up to meet mine again. I’d swear I see a light of approval in his expression, but I’m not sure.
Well, he seems like he’s a bit full of himself. I don’t think anyone has ever told me what I “may” call them, and for some reason, the phrasing doesn't sit well with me. I try to shrug off the feeling and glance around his home. “Beautiful place you have here.” Clearly he likes to surround himself with beautiful things: this home, the drive up, Laurel...
“Thank you. Would you like to see the kitchen?” With that, he makes his way through the huge front room and into another open space as I hurry to keep up.
I guess him asking me if I want to see the kitchen wasn’t actually a question, but that’s fine.
The huge open kitchen gives another angle of this stunning home, and I see the windows all along one wall as the room opens up to an incredible space. Nobody needs a kitchen this big and the ceilings tower above, the beautiful wooden beams and wood walls giving the place an incredible warmth.
He walks up to the fridge and turns to me, as if patiently waiting for me to catch up. “The fridge can order food to the door with voice commands. You can request overnight delivery, or for last-minute items you may have forgotten, they can be sent within thirty minutes.”
I stare at the glass and light front panel door of the fridge, trying not to feel stunned. I've worked in high tech kitchens before, but nothing this high tech or amazing.
I nod to let him know I’m keeping up as he moves toward the counter. He puts his hand down on six different spots. “These are the burners. Small, medium, and large.” His hands move with his words, showing me where the burners are, but I see nothing more than slate gray countertops. He must be messing with me.
I give him the side eye, wondering why he’s making jokes instead of helping me prepare to cook for him.
He must see the annoyance in my eyes because he touches a little glass rectangle and takes my hand. The contact sends a current of electricity through my arm and I gasp, nearly pulling away. His gaze darts to mine, but his expression is so calm and cool I don’t know if he felt the spark. He guides my hand over the countertop, and I feel the heat rising off the stone in six different locations.
I want to ask him what witchcraft this is, but I figure I better keep things professional. “Thank you.”
“We’ll sync your phone to the cook top, too.” He nods his head before leading me to an overlarge cabinet door. He pulls the door open and I see it’s not a cabinet at all, but a huge pantry well stocked with every dry and preserved good I could ever imagine, all neatly categorized and stored on pristine stainless shelves. I walk over to freeze-dried blueberries, strawberries, and assorted other fruits, stunned by everything that’s available to me. “You’re welcome to use anything you like, just replace things and rotate them out.”
I nod, mute, as I think of all the foods I can cook with these ingredients.
“I eat a high-protein diet,” he says, and I tense up.
“Did you make the lists I requested?” I ask, pulling out my phone.
He nods, taking out his. A moment later, I receive a message from him with his meal list and open the doc. I’m thrilled that he made a spreadsheet of them, but I’m dismayed at his eating habits. He eats far too much red meat - daily steaks and burgers - in addition to pork, bacon, chicken, and tuna. I see very few greens and even fewer fruits and almost no carbs, healthy or otherwise. There’s no balance to his diet at all and I glance at him, surprised.
But first, I need to make sure we don’t need to wait to have this conversation, so I shelve my concerns. “Do we need to wait for your wife to get here to make a meal plan?”
His brows furrow. “My wife?”
He seems genuinely confused and I nod, swallowing hard. “Laurel? I just met her and she’s a doll. I don’t want to get started without her.” I plaster a smile on my face, but he’s staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Lauren isn’t my wife. She’s my best friend’s wife.” He’s so deadpan and cool I feel a shock of humiliation heat my cheeks. I feel stupid. What a mistake to make.
