Cole takes a sip of his wine before he finally lifts his abandoned piece of fish to his mouth.
The second he closes his lips around his fork, he groans, and his eyes shutter.
Okay, that’s a good sign.
I’m powerless but to watch as he chews and then finally swallows.
I swear the seconds turn to hours as I wait for his feedback. I fidget impatiently with the hem of the dress I borrowed from Mom’s wardrobe this morning after freaking out about not having anything suitable for this meeting.
“Freya,” he finally says, “I’m not paying for experience. I’m paying for you. And if you told me you wanted double, I’d give it to you.”
“Why?”
“Because of your cookies,” he deadpans before spearing a green bean and popping it into his mouth.
I bark a laugh. “No cookies are worth that.”
“Then you clearly haven’t eaten any of yours. Listen,” he says, lowering his cutlery and turning his attention fully on me once more. “I know this all might feel crazy, but I have a good feeling about it. I like to think that my gut usually steers me in the right direction, and right now, it’s telling me that I need more of your food inside it.”
I giggle. The sound is high-pitched and embarrassing. But his words mean more to me than any I’ve heard in a very long time.
“I would love for you to be my chef?—”
“But I’m not?—”
“To me you are. Freya, I would be honored if you would consider the position of being my personal chef. I can’t promise that I’ll always be easy to work with—I can get grumpy, and when I’m stressed, I close myself off from everyone and hide. But I’d like to think the benefits that come with this role will overshadow the downsides.”
I stare at him. I can’t help but feel like I just won the lottery—which is bizarre, because I never play it.
This is the second time in my life that I’ve been offered something that seems far too good to be true.
You’d think I’d have learned from the first time and the broken heart that came with it.
Apparently not.
Because before I’m aware of it, the words, “I’d be honored to be your chef,” fall from my lips. “Which is good, because it seems I’ve already started.”
4
COLE
I’ve had a few big things happen to me in my life. Some I’d rather forget. Others I’ll cherish for as long as I live.
And I can’t help feeling like Freya agreeing to this should be up there with some of the best.
The last few years with unprofessional and unreliable chef after chef have been hard. Getting food and nutrition right is so important for my job. And as much as I’d love to learn and do it all myself, it’s just never going to happen.
But all of that is about to change.
Everything is looking up. Life is about to get easier—and a hell of a lot tastier. And if I’m being honest, having someone around the house every now and then will be nice.
I’m self-aware enough to acknowledge my inability to let people in. I’ve never really had friends. Sure, I consider many of my teammates friends, but they come and go. Brit and I were fairly close, but now that he’s been traded for Rett Donnelly, I have no doubt that that friendship will wither.
Freya and I keep the conversation focused on work and what I’ll be expecting of her in the weeks and months to come. She’s nervous, I can see that in the constant tremble of her hand, but she’s also excited. The way she lights up when we begin talkingabout meals she can make for me is addictive. She really loves food and cooking, and that works perfectly for me, because I fucking love eating.
I give her a key fob that will allow her access to the building, the basement garage, and most importantly, my apartment.
She’s the only person to have one aside from me, my housekeeper, and security, and I can’t lie, handing it over isn’t easy. This is my life, my safe space. Letting someone into that, someone I don’t really know, is a big fucking deal.
