He chuckles and nods in agreement. “It does smell nice.”
“There you go. Set the massacred chorizo aside and start another round.”
Once we’re back at our respective work counters, I follow Matty’s movements. He’s smoother, calmer, but something must have happened to trigger his anxiety, because he’s usually calm and composed, though a bit lippy. However, I’ve learned to accept it as a part of his nature.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask at one point.
He’s got the pans on the stove now, the drizzle of oil heated, as he throws the chorizo in. He works two pans at once. Once those two are done and completely mounted on their plates, they’ll go under the lamps while we handle the other serving with the same care and attention to detail.
“About what?” Matty replies, gently tossing the omelets in both pans before he adds the cheese and keeps tossing until they take the shape of a Japanese-style omelet that is soft and runny on the inside.
“About what’s got you so wound up.”
“I’m okay, Raina.”
“You’re not. But if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. Just offering an ear if you need it.”
Matty gives me a long, wondering look.
By the second and third omelets, I’m by his side, manning two more in pans of my own. We move in almost perfect unison, tossing and stirring and turning until the elongated oval omelets roll out onto their respective plates.
“I’m having some issues with Dee,” Matty admits eventually.
Nausea tickles the back of my throat, but I need to retain my objectivity. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, well, I think I asked for it. I should’ve known better than to hook up with a hostess,” he scoffs and shakes his head in dismay. “I caught feelings, and I’m pretty sure that woman is not capable of feelings.”
I’m inclined to agree, but again, some objectivity is sorely needed. “Hostesses are still people, though. They’re women with thoughts and emotions. Some are just really good at burying them, masking them, going out of their way not to deal with them.”
“And here I am, moping like an idiot and getting anxious because she’s been avoiding me the past two days,” Matty says. “She’s even ducking my calls.”
“You live in the same house.”
“Right, but she’s got that Quincy guy keeping her busy during the work hours. And Deanna’s work hours are almost twenty-four. The little time she has to herself… I don’t know what to do.”
“Did you talk about it? About what the two of you are supposed to be?”
Matty lowers his gaze and gets started on the last two omelets. “No.”
“You should. It would clear the air between the two of you. The last thing you want to do is fall in love with someone who isn’t ready or willing to reciprocate.”
Listen to me, handing out love advice like a Pez dispenser when I’m practically doing the same thing. Catching feelings for my bosses, even though we agreed we only had the oneweek to work with.
At the endof my shift in the kitchen, I race back to my room. With one eye on the clock, I change into the pink jammies and check the note again. They mentioned the Paradise Room in their note. I’ve never been there, but I do know it’s on the top floor of the east wing.
It’s in their private quarters, I quickly realize as I walk past Alex, Max, and Vincent’s rooms. I haven’t seen them all day. They didn’t join the guests for any of the meals, and we didn’t cross paths anywhere else on the estate. It’s as if they vanished sometime last night while I was still asleep.
“Hello?” I knock on the Paradise Room door.
My heart skips a beat when Alex’s voice echoes from inside. “Come in, Raina.”
Paradise Room is a massive master suite decorated in a lavish Baroque style, with ornate and gilded crown molding, white walls, and angels painted on the ceiling. White and gold drapes frame the floor-to-ceiling French windows, while a gorgeous carpet adorns the lacquered floor, its borders frilled and neatly trimmed to perfection.
The bedroom area sprawls with a giant canopy bed and sculptural nightstands. A four-legged ottoman rests at the foot of the bed. Alex sits there, quietly waiting, while Max and Vincent rest in the wingback chairs in the lounge area closer to the door. It’s beautiful in here, brilliant and well-lit, breezy and ethereal. The way in which the light filters through the drapes casts a soft glow over everything.
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
Max smiles and glances at a giant bouquet of red roses overflowing out of a porcelain vase on the coffee table next to him. Only now do I notice it, along with the other red-themed additions—more roses on the side table; champagne and glasses on one of the nightstands; chocolates, strawberries, and a Murano glass of whipped cream resting on a silver tray on the other nightstand.
