Page 69 of The October Arrangement

My jaw dropped while he stood there grinning at me.

“Oh, my God. You’re serious,” I said.

“About paying you? No. About the pot pie? Very serious.”

“You can order a chicken pot pie practically anywhere in Manhattan,” I said.

“I don’t want one from just anywhere,” he said. “I want one made in my kitchen.”

“Made by?” My brow arched.

“You.” He took another sip of his coffee.

“You’ve got some nerve, Montclair.”

“What? You cooked last night, and I loved it.”

“So?” I set my mug on the counter.

“So now I want you to make me chicken pot pie.”

“That’s not how this works.” I laughed. “I didn’t sign up for some billionaire meal plan by cooking one meal for you.”

He walked over and gripped my hips. “So yes, you’ll make it?”

“Uh, no.” I smiled. “No chicken pot pie.”

His eyes stared into mine. “Okay.” He kissed me. “I have to get to work. Have a good day.”

“You too.” I narrowed my eyes.

I picked up my coffee and followed him to the living room. He grabbed his suit coat and slipped it on.

“I like a lot of crust,” he said.

“There isn’t going to be any crust because there isn’t going to be a pot pie.” I laughed.

He grabbed his briefcase and pushed the elevator button.

“Okay.” He stepped inside when the doors opened.

“I’m not making it,” I said.

“See you tonight,” he said as the door started to close.

“Without a chicken pot pie!”

The doors closed, and I stood there shaking my head. The nerve of that man. He had a housekeeper, assistants, and restaurants that moved reservations around the second he’d call to say he needed a table. And now, because I made him lobster mac and cheese one time, he thinks he can make dinner requests.

I walked to the kitchen, grabbed my phone from the island, and texted him.

Just so we’re clear, I’m NOT making you a chicken pot pie.

Got it.

I narrowed my eyes at his reply because that was too easy. Suddenly, three dots appeared.

Don’t forget the peas.