“That’s actually why I called,” I say. “I’m making Luka a special dinner because he’s been working so much overtime, and I wanted to get your dark chocolate mousse recipe.”
She laughs, and I realize how much I’ve missed the sound. “It’s three ingredients!”
“I know, I know,” I admit. “It’s just chocolate, butter, and eggs. Salted butter and—”
“Organic eggs,” she says along with me.
“Right,” I sigh. “But I need you to explain all the melting and the beating and the stirring! Last time I tried, it was a total fail. The texture was all gritty.”
“You have to let it cool before you fold in the egg whites,” she says. “I’ll walk you through it. And if you have espresso, you can add some of that too. Does Luka like espresso?”
“Agh! Mom, you’re a genius,” I tell her.
Knowing the mousse has to cool in the fridge for a few hours, I get it out of the way first. Thanks to my mom, it comes out perfectly. After lavishing her with gratitude and promises that we’ll see each other soon, I hang up the phone—only to realize the afternoon is slipping by.
I know it’s possible I’ll never win back Luka’s affection, and that whatever seemed to be blooming between us has been irretrievably lost…but even though the sex we have is fantastic, I can’t live my life waiting for the rare occasion he wants me too much to resist. I have to focus on my own needs. Which means moving forward with my modeling career.
Emzee’s advice was solid. Luka may not owe me anything after what I almost did to him, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get what I want. And while I don’t have any regrets about giving up the contract with Elite—even though it came with the offer of the Maxilene account—my dreams haven’t changed. Getting Luka’s help is my best shot at winning the Maxilene job without having to lie, cheat, or steal.
Mousse done, I move on to the marinara sauce with spicy pepperoncini, Luka’s favorite. I give the sauce a boost with some heavenly Italian sausage I picked up at the deli and let it simmer while I spoon the cooled mousse into cut crystal glasses, topping the desserts off with cinnamon and shaved chocolate before setting them back in the refrigerator. Then I take out the dough I made earlier and roll it through the pasta maker, into perfect ribbons of fettuccine. It’s funny; of all the fancy meals Luka has spent his life eating, spaghetti is the one he likes best.
Sweating and overheated now, I take a well-earned break with Instagram, a few texts with Mateo, and a tall glass of iced tea. As I swipe a flour-dusted hand across my forehead, I realize I’m probably a total mess, but hopefully it will all be worth it. My plan is to play the role of a good wife. A model wife. The kind any husband would be happy to come home to. The kind he’d be more than willing to assist when she oh-so casually brings up her next career step.
Time for my side dishes.
I steam some green beans and toss together a Caesar salad, then round out the meal by roasting pears and sprinkling them with nutmeg, cinnamon, and a touch of cayenne before popping them back in the oven to warm. When they’re glistening, the flesh lined with grill marks, I top them with raisin sauce and set them in the warmer. It feels like I just ran a marathon.
I still have an hour before he arrives, so I set the table for the two of us complete with wine glasses and a tumbler for brandy. Then I get in the shower and wash, shave, exfoliate, and condition myself to within an inch of my life.
Standing in front of the mirror, I take my time massaging lotion into my skin, ensuring every inch of me is soft and supple. Then I lightly blow-dry my hair and twist it into a loose knot with some wisps hanging down—just the way Luka likes it.
I keep my makeup simple yet sexy with a sheer bb cream, tons of mascara, and bold lips—the same lip color I wore last time I took him in my mouth, leaving it smeared on his cock. Lastly, I put on a lacy halter bra, my highest black heels, and a tight black dress with a deep V in the front that I know Luka likes. Finally, I give myself a once-over, pleased with my efforts.
Who knows? There might be more than one dessert on the table tonight.
My belly flutters at the thought.
Shaking off the heat that line of thinking sends through me, I return to the kitchen just in time to hear Luka opening the front door. Quickly, I pour him a brandy and stride into the living room, offering the glass as I drink him in.
My mouth goes a little dry. I didn’t see him before he left for work this morning. I never forget how hot my husband is, but seeing him again after even a few hours’ break always reminds me just how spectacular he is.
“That suit looks great on you,” I say as I offer him the glass.
He hesitates before taking it, narrowing his eyes slightly as if he’s rightly confused.
“Thanks.” He holds the glass as if he’s not sure what to do with it. Then he takes a sip and sets down his work bag, strides to the table to give it a once-over, and turns to look at me.
“What’s going on, Brooklyn?” he asks, suspicious.
I smile wider. “Do you smell that? The marinara is ready. I hope you’re hungry.”
It’s obvious how startled he is. “Wait. You cooked…for me? Why?”
“Maybe I’m just taking my role seriously for once.”
He follows me as I sashay into the kitchen, drawn by his curiosity or his stomach. Probably both. I stir the sauce and lift the lid off the noodles I’d drizzled in olive oil and sea salt.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve had dinner together,” I add. “Go. Sit. I’ll bring you a plate.”
