Oh perfect. So, even though he’s young and hot, he’s every bit the rich-guy arse I knew he’d be.
Plastering a phony smile on my reddened face, I say, “No instructions were given as to your dining preferences so I had to guess.” There's an ill-advised edge in my voice, but I'm exhausted, disappointed, and starving. Oh, plus there’s a draft from the air conditioner blowing up my nether regions reminding me of how naked my behind is at the moment.
“I didn’t bother to fill in the preferences form, but I was just telling your co-workers here that you’ll find I’m not at all picky.”
“Other than disliking goat cheese, that is?” I ask.
He stiffens slightly at the question. “Well, all soft cheeses, really. And come to think of it, I’ve always felt that sundried tomatoes ruin any dish.”
“Since it’s not 1993, I won’t be using those anyway.”
He smiles for the briefest instant and I’m temporarily blinded by his hotness. My brain gives a mental slap to my lady bits and tells them to calm the hell down.We willnotbe attracted to this wanker.“Anything else I should avoid?” Other than him, that is…
Mr. Snooty Pants looks up at the ceiling for a second, then says, “I dislike onions, pecans, anything caramelized, anything with gristle, and gazpacho of any kind.”
“But you’re not picky.”
“Exactly.”
“Or apparently, at all self-aware,” I mutter.
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing.” I crouch—gingerly this time—and gather my clothes, then stand, all the while careful not to turn my back to Mr. Low Maintenance or Mr. and Mrs. Perfect Servants.
Phyllis, who is now holding the soap with two fingers as though it’s a dirty nappy, hands it to me while she addresses our VIP. “The bar is stocked with a selection of premium beers, fruit juices, sodas, and top-shelf liquors. Next to it, you’ll find a cupboard filled with various snack foods such as nuts, crisps, and chocolates. There is a handheld radio on the bar which you can use to reach us should you need anything.”
“Thank you,” he says, his eyes never leaving me. He zeros in on my tiny uniform while I do my best not to fidget. Smirking, he says, “Have you recently had a growth spurt?”
Oh, he’s a regular Kevin Hart with the jokes.
Lifting my chin, I say, “This is the new look for chef uniforms in Paris, actually. The shorter sleeves don't get caught as easily in an open flame.”
Raising one eyebrow, he asks, “And the short pants?”
“That's for style.” I give him an icy glare then remind myself that I need to dial back the snark for the good of the resort. Raising the corners of my lips in an attempt at a smile, I say, “For your dinner tonight, I’ll be preparing a light grapefruit and avocado salad served on a bed of spinach and lamb’s lettuce with a balsamic vinaigrette dressing followed by a fennel and lemon risotto with prawns caught this afternoon.”
“Ah, risotto,” he says, wrinkling his nose ever so slightly. “The signature dish of the rookie chef.”
I stiffen at his words. “I assure you, I’m no rookie.”
“Really? How long ago did you graduate from culinary school?”
“Yesterday,” I murmur. “But believe me, I’m very experienced.”
An amused smirk crosses his face and he stops himself just short of laughing. “I’m sure you think you are.”
“Do you want the risotto or not?” I ask sharply, then taking a breath, I soften my tone a little. “I’d be happy to whip up something else if you prefer.”
“No need. Risotto is fine,” he answers. “As I was saying to Mr. and Mrs. Willis while you were using my washroom, I won’t be requiring their services this month other than a weekly cleaning while I’m out for a run. I’ll need complete privacy so I can finish the novel I’m working on. I don’t care who brings me my food so long as they’re quiet about it,” he says. Looking at me, he adds, “I work until well after midnight and don’t eat breakfast until close to noon, lunch at four p.m., and I take my dinner around nine. I expect that won’t be a problem.”
“No, of course not.” Except ittotally isa problem, because it means I have to sleep on the houseboat every night for the next two damn months. There’s no way it’s safe to make the ride back to the resort after dark.
Nodding, he says, “Thank you, that will be all.”
“Very good, sir,” Alfred says, picking up the plate of bruschetta. “I’ll just remove this unwanted food for you.”
In lieu of answering, Mr. Snooty Pants picks up his laptop bag and turns his back to us. I stare for a moment while he makes his way across the large room to the mahogany desk, my entire body seething with hatred. He is everything that’s wrong with this world. I can see his epitaph now: Mr. Davenport. Writer. Entitled, rude arsehole. Missed by no one.
