The dawn finally breaks,and I literally go to the gym for the first time in ages to have something to do with my restless body. This weekend is going to be torture.
It’s barely nine thirty in the morning when my phone starts to ring. The caller ID shows an unknown number. It could be a nurse from Memory Care, so I answer it.
“Hello?”
“Is this Kate Dawson?” A woman’s scratchy voice comes through the speaker, followed by a cough. She has a thick French accent.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Eloise. I’m Mr. Bradshaw’s personal chef.” She coughs again before continuing, “I’ve come down with something, and I can’t make it in today. Georginne gave me your number to call for a replacement.”
My throat dries up. There’s a moment of silence before I start to babble. “Oh! Okay, um...I’m sorry you’re sick. I, uh, do you usually cook three meals a day for him?”
“I make him lunch and dinner every day, except for Sundays. The kitchen is fully stocked to prepare pesto salmon and shrimp pasta with a sweet potato mash. It’s one of his favorites so I make enough for lunch and dinner.”
I try to formulate more words, but they won’t come. I survive on grilled cheese and wine. Sometimes, I forget that some of the adults of the world have menus that sound like they belong to a rich, old white lady living in London.
“Miss Dawson?”
“Call me Kate, please. I’ll take care of it, Eloise. Hope you feel better.”
“I should be good to resume work on Monday.”
Thank goodness.
“Okay. Good-bye.”
“Au revoir.”
I put the phone down before reaching a finger over to pet Speckles’s head. He’s hiding under the coffee table.
“I don’t have a clue where to find a chef suitable for Mr. Fancy Pants’s food.”
Mel’s busiest day at work is today, or I would ask her if she knew anyone who could cook.
“Now would be the time to have more friends.” I sigh as I pull up Google on my phone.
I type inpesto salmon and shrimp pasta with sweet potatoes, and a few recipes come up. They don’t look too complicated. It’s getting close to ten a.m., so if I’m going to have this ready by lunchtime, I’d better get moving.
I take a quick shower since I didn’t after the gym this morning. My comfy jeans and plain vintage tee with an old surfboard on it seem like decent attire to cook in. It’s one of the few outfits I was able to snag from my old apartment last night before I had to escape Stephen and Maddie’s make-out session.After some hairspray and my very basic makeup routine, I’m ready to go. I pause at the door.
Do I need to wear what I would at the office?
I don’t have time to search through Mel’s stuff and find something clean, so screw it. If Mr. Bradshaw fires me today for dressing inappropriately, then I can avoid the dreaded lunch with Becky on Monday.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull my car into a guest parking spot outside his apartment building. When I step inside the elevator, two girls get on right after me. One is a short, cute redhead with unnaturally large breasts. The other is her opposite—a skinny blonde at least six inches taller than me. On the journey up, they chat about the party they were at last night in someone’s penthouse.
Oh no, surely not. . .
“You know he’s with another woman every weekend, but it doesn’t mean I’m not going for it,” the blonde says.
The redhead laughs as they get off on the eighth floor. I take a steadying breath as the elevator continues to take me up to the top.
You need the money. You need this job. You can’t afford to quit right now.
Him being a cheating, engaged scumbag is bad enough. Finding out I could potentially be one in a long line of weekend flings feels like adding salt to an open wound.
The doors part to reveal his luxurious penthouse. As I walk toward the kitchen, I look around at the decorative artifacts and paintings on the walls. On the table where the vase was that I broke earlier this week, there is now a miniature marble statue of a woman. I don’t dare get closer to study it.
