After parking, I pull my two travel containers from the back of the van and follow the directional signs to what I hope is the right elevator. The code works. This has to be the place.
The elevator has only one button with the number fifty-one, which I press. Less than a minute later, I walk out to a landing before a set of towering double doors.
I give the one on the left a small knock and wait. A woman in her late thirties dressed in one of those black and white maid’s uniforms answers the door.
“Good afternoon,” she greets me.
“Hi, I’m Emily Fields.”
“Yes, I know. Mrs. Worthington is expecting you. She’s on her way over from the office. Come on in. I’ll show you to the kitchen so you can set up.”
“Thanks.” I follow her past several sleek, modern rooms decorated in eggshell dark gray and silver, admiring the marble floors and undoubtedly expensive artwork on the wall. We arrive at the massive open concept kitchen. I’m not surprised that it happens to be bigger than the entire apartment I share with Dahlia and Rose.
The maid stands beside the entryway she led me through a second ago. “This is the kitchen. The fridge is to your left, the pantry is around the corner, and the stove top and oven are at the center island over there. Let me know if you need any help with burners or anything else. I’ll be around. My name is Marie.”
“Thanks, Marie. Oh, is there a powder room nearby?” I ask. It doesn’t hurt to have the lay of the land, so I don’t end up having to search high and low for a place to empty my bladder on the night of the event.
If Mrs. Worthington hires me.
“Back through this hallway, three doors to your right.”
“Great. Thanks again.”
I only need a few minutes to lay out and decorate the seven hors d’oeuvres I brought along for sampling. They all have to present well, and it goes without saying that the taste must be exceptional.
Before I’ve finished plating the last appetizer, my body tenses up as I hear the clicking of heels along the marble floors. She must be here. My suspicion is confirmed. She’s nearby, in conversation with someone over the phone. She enters the room with the phone still up to her ear, and quickly wraps up the call.
“Emily. So glad you could make it,” she says, sliding her smartphone into the black Saint Laurent designer bag hanging on her arm.
“Hi, Mrs. Worthington.”
“Please, call me Diane. It turns out that I only have a few minutes due to some shifting around in my calendar. I hope that works for you.”
“I understand. It’s no problem. Would you like to sample the six that are ready?”
She glances at the counter beside me and notices the appetizers laid out on rectangular all white serving platters and steps up to them. “That would be perfect.”
I take a bit of time to explain the selection I prepared. I went all out, putting my own spin on each of the hors-d’oeuvres. She takes a nibble of everything. I walk her through the options. Bacon wrapped caramelized pears, a variation of the dill cucumber bites I made for the gala, but these are formed into cups. There are also sun-dried tomato parmesan bruschetta, zucchini chicken crostini with goat cheese, jumbo shrimp bites with a garlic sesame dip, plus the avocado and chicken mini skewers. I point at the unfinished sausage stuffed mushrooms that I’m working on. She doesn’t hesitate to taste one of the not too presentable half-done pieces. Her moans of gastronomic pleasure are not lost on me. That’s more a measure of the likelihood that she’ll hire me than words or polite nods.
“These are all phenomenal,” she exclaims after she finishes chewing what was in her mouth. “You’re hired. I have to head back now, but send me an email. We can take care of the rest.”
“That’s great. Thanks for your business. Um, Mrs. Worthington, should we discuss the price per guest and finalize which five hors d’oeuvres you prefer from the seven I presented?”
“Let’s go with all seven. It’s a great selection. And the price is fine. Whatever Blair charges works for me.”
I knew I should’ve come a little earlier. I would’ve gotten rid of my distracting phone. My phone. The goddamn traitorous phone. As Diane wipes her fingers on one of the cloth napkins beside the serving trays, my phone screen lights up directly beside it with a text from Dylan. And crap, it’s clear as day that it’s her Dylan. His whole Dylan ‘Your Friendly Neighborhood Taste Tester’ Worthington shows as the sender, and his message starts with, ‘Hey sexy. Good luck with the—’
Thank goodness the rest of it is cut off. But it’s damaging.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say, flustered as I try to flip it over. But all it does is its usual long buzzing and slips closer to Diane’s line of sight. She’s definitely seen it, from the way she’s stopped what she was doing and freezes with her fingers in midair just inches from the shoulder strap of her purse. “That’s just a message from… someone—” I can’t even scramble to explain.
She studies me for a moment from the corner of her eye, then composes herself again. “You know my son, I gather?”
“I…yes, I do.”
“Are you one of his…female friends?”
The slightly nauseating way she forms the last phrase worries me a little. “Um, he’s more a friend of a friend,” I say honestly, leaving out the part that we kissed less than twenty-four hours after meeting for the first time.
“I see. Sorry to cut this short. Let’s connect by email to finish up the details.”
“Yes, that’s fine. Thanks for seeing me.”
“Marie will show you out. Take care.”
I stare at the half-eaten appetizers. She liked them all. And I’m hired. I think I am. If this tiny incident doesn’t screw it up. God, I hope it doesn’t. Seven appetizers for around a hundred and fifty people, at close to a couple hundred dollars per person. Oh my gosh, I’m rich!
At this rate, a few more gigs like this and I’ll pay off my student loans before the end of this summer.
If.
If I still have the fucking gig.
After packing up, I’m on my way down the elevator when my phone buzzes in my purse. I roll my eyes. It’s probably Dylan again. My hands are full, so I ignore it until I put everything back into the catering van and drive out of the underground parking.
It buzzes a couple more times when I’m topside. I pull over to the side of the busy street to check. There’s a group message from Rose and Dahlia, and a separate one from Dylan. They all want to know how it went, but Dylan’s message has a little extra. I send a quick reply to Rose and Dahlia that I got the job, then switch over to read Dylan’s text more closely.
Dylan: Hey Sexy. Good luck with the meeting. Hope it goes well with Diane. If it does, we should celebrate. Drinks tonight for real?
Awww hell. I’m going to have to turn him down. Panty-melting kiss or not. No matter how bad I feel for making him drive all the way out to me in the shady part of Brooklyn only to cancel on him. It’s best to accept that our interaction ran its course in his car two nights ago. For all I know, it wouldn’t end up being anything more than just one of those short-lived experiences.
My instincts tell me it’s not.
That and the butterflies swirling around just from his innocent text.
Time to pump the brakes on this thing.
Eleven
Dylan
I haven’t heard from Emily, but I’m not about to start panicking. As a man with expertise in the domain that crosses the financial, analytical, and tech fields, I can relate to creative passion careers. That’s the space Emily’s in. Chefs aren’t the nine to five types. They live, breathe, sleep, and dream their passions.
I’m inclined to give her a pass for not replying the next day, and when a week pass, then two, and even a third.
But when Diane walks into the offices of Knights Capital where I work and barges into my office in a huff, her line of questioning landing on Emily Fields, I’m all the more tempted to check in on her.
&
nbsp; It goes without saying that my mother’s visit isn’t a social call. Our relationship isn’t strained. It really isn’t. We don’t fight, and we don’t argue. I don’t hold any resentment from anything she did or didn’t do during my childhood. And it’s for the same reason that I can give a woman like Emily all the space she’d ever need.
People who are overly passionate about their life’s work tend to absorb themselves in their careers.
This is Diane.
She was barely around during my formative years, and I was pretty stoked about her absence as a teenage boy looking for every opportunity to be free to roam on the one hand and to hide out in my room doing nerdy shit on the other. In that respect, Diane was the perfect parent.
Of course, if you found yourself needing her to talk to, for nurturing, to cook you a meal, to be maternal, or for advice, like my sister, Vanessa did, Diane would come up short. She was, is and forever will be sorely lacking in the homemaker department. But the law is her passion. Not parenting. And if you compared her to any ideal fictional TV parent, well, you’d probably come to the point of questioning why she chose to be a mother at all.
But the bottom line for me when Diane’s concerned is, I get it.
Passionate people who’ve found their raison d’etre in life tend to be aloof and self-absorbed. I’m passionate and self-aware, so I can relate to her. It’s also one of the reasons that from the outside, acquaintances would hold the belief that Diane and I get along. My friends know that I take Diane in the smallest possible doses. That way, when we do end up in the same room, there’s a level of relief. There’s an aspect of missing each other because we’re family and we rarely see each other. Even if the condo she lives in when she or my dad sleeps in the city is only five floors below the one I own and live in full time.
But today, by showing up in my office unexpected, with a question about Emily, she’s surpassed our allotted quota of visits.
“Good afternoon, son,” Diane greets me. She sets down her purse on the black leather sofa in the middle of my office.
“Mom, hi.” I pull my glasses off my face and head over to her, exchanging one of her air kisses. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“You look well.” She sits beside her purse and crosses her legs. To me, that means this is not a quick visit. “How’s work, darling?”
“The usual. You know how it is?”
“That I do. Have a seat, Dylan. I’ll make this quick.”
I sit in the leather armchair facing her. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course. I was a few floors up for another meeting with a client, and thought I’d check up on you. Your father and I haven’t seen you since the gala. We’re having a little get together at the condo on Friday after work. Mostly with the partners and staff, as well as our top clients. I’d like you and your sister to join us.”
I have no doubt that my sister, Vanessa won’t attend. Neither will I.
“Thanks for the invite. Things are pretty busy around here, though. I may end up working late.”
“Do try, darling. You’re more than welcome to bring a date.”
Yeah. Right. Although, her gaze intensifies after she mentions the word date. Is she studying my reaction? Her behavior is strange on so many levels. She’s given me more attention in the last five minutes than I’ve had from her in as many years.
I push off from my seat and saunter over to my desk. Shuffling a few papers I was working on, I find my phone, which I pick up and slide into my pocket. “I need to get to a meeting, Mom. Can we leave it open?”
“Sure, dear. Keep me posted.” She gets to her feet and comes over to me, giving me a real kiss on the check this time. “Don’t work too hard.”
“I’ll try.”
As she sets off to head out, she pivots around at the last second. “Oh, I meant to ask. By any chance are you friends with an Emily Fields? She’s an up and coming chef working under Chef Blair. I hired her that night at the gala, and got the sense that you two might know each other.”
“Sure, I know her,” I say, letting on as little as possible. “What’s this about?”
“Nothing really. She’ll be doing a fair bit of catering for me. You know I prefer for there to be sufficient…professional distance between our family and our service providers.”
“Mother, I’m sure you can imagine how small this town really is. If I were to keep a professional distance, as you call it, from everyone associated with your law firm, or here at Knight’s Capital, or with the host of businesses our clients own, there’d be no one left.”
“Well, do give it some thought, darling. Your father and I are looking forward to seeing you there. Enjoy your day.”
I see why she’s here. She wants to tell me in her own unique way to keep my hands off Emily. That’s not gonna happen.
The pertinent question I’m left with is how did she connect the dots between Emily and me? And does that reason explain why I haven’t heard a thing from Emily? Now I really want to reach out.
Twelve
Emily
It took everything in me not to reply to Dylan’s text. But I will. I plan to, the minute I’ve wrapped up this gig. Three weeks pass quickly, and my food is a hit with Mrs. Worthington and her party of guests tonight. So much so, that by the end of the evening, I do a quick tally have close to ten business cards tucked into my apron from attendees.
Ten potential new clients. Each one of them made inquiries about a specific date coming up. From baby showers to bar mitzvahs, art showings to small office gathering, they want to hire me. It feels fantastic that they do.
I pulled off the night so smoothly that I have to celebrate. Hopefully not alone. But with Rose out of town, and Dahlia spending all her free time with Jackson, a glass of wine before bed may be the full extent of my celebration.
But there’s Dylan.
As exhausting as the day was, I’m on such a high that my fingers are itching to send him a text. The coast should be clear now. His mother’s no longer a new client. Mrs. Worthington raved over my dishes and wants to hire me for upcoming events, but it’s different now. Right? She never raised the question of her son after she saw that text on my phone a few weeks back. It must be a non-issue for her.
After my leftovers, food containers, supplies, and other equipment are neatly packed up and loaded onto my two rolling carts, I give the kitchen a quick cleaning, even though Diane assured me that her maid will handle it.
Always leave a kitchen cleaner than you found it.
Once I’m satisfied, I take a peek through the kitchen doors that let out into the vast hallway and adjoining living area. Diane is busy, deep conversation with one of the stragglers, a female client whose name I’ve already forgotten.
It’s close to eleven at night, but I take a chance and send Dylan a text. I don’t expect him to reply, but he does within minutes of my message.
Me: Hi. Sorry for not replying in a while. Was pretty busy. Are you around?
Dylan: Hey. I meant to text you earlier. Things went well?
Me: They did! Mrs. W is pleased.
Dylan: Good to hear. Congrats.
Me: I’d celebrate if I weren’t going solo this weekend.
Dylan: Want some company? For drinks, maybe?
Me: Sure, why not. I kinda owe you. I just have to unload the work van first.
Dylan: Where?
Me: At Gauche, in Soho.
Dylan: That’s not too far. Are you in guest parking at Diane’s condo?
Me: Yes. Just heading there now.
Dylan: Okay. Will see you.
Putting my phone away, I let Diane know that I’m heading out. She hands me an envelope, and thanks me for the fifth time tonight. Once I’m back in the kitchen, I clip the rolling carts together and wheel it out to the other elevator landing through a convenient service entrance the maid showed me earlier. As I climb onto the elevator, I’m met by a smiling Dylan.
He stands there with his chiseled face, charming s
mile, dressed casually in a loose-fitting cotton button down shirt, blue jeans that are so form-fitting, it shows off the firm tone of his leg muscles and tan loafers.
“Hi,” I say, surprised. “You’re not like, stalking me, are you?”
“Maybe a little.”
I look down at the wheels of the front cart and give it a nudge to move it past the space between the surface of the elevator and landing floors. “That was fast.”
“Not really. I live a few floors away. Couldn’t stop Diane from getting her own place here after I bought my condo, though.”
“You live here?” I ask, and straighten the carts on one side of the large service elevator. After hitting the parking level, I move over to stand beside Dylan.
He nods. “I do. You’ll be happy to know I drew the line at showing up to Diane’s party tonight. She invited me once she found out that you and I know each other.”
“Oh?” I ask, but my voice is laden with guilt. I’m the reason she’s aware. “Sorry about that,” I admit. “It’s kind of my fault.”
“How come?”
I timidly relate back the incident about her seeing his text on my phone.
“That explains it.”
“What, she spoke to you?”
“Not to worry. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“No, I’d like to know. She definitely had a reaction when she found out.”
“Really, just let it go. It’s not a big deal, and what really matters is she followed through with her decision to hire you in spite of it all.”
“I guess.”
“But again, can we park the topic? I came to see you. We’re celebrating, right?”
“True. We are.” The elevator opens onto a higher floor. His floor. “Crap. I forgot to press the parking level.”
“No need.” He scans the two carts for a few moments. “There’s room in my pantry for this stuff. And you can refrigerate the perishables. If you don’t need to return everything to Gauche, just leave it here for now.”
The Billionaire and the Virgin Chef: Seduction and Sin, Book 4 Page 5