I chewed on my bottom lip, my gut warming. Fuck. Why did that sound so hot?
I will be home before three so we can shower and get dressed for the photoshoot and interview. They will be here at four. Be good.
Your husband,
Alton
I ran my fingers over the words he’d written. Everything about him was fancy, even his damned handwriting. I sighed and slipped out of bed. Grabbing some clothes from my walk-in closet, I decided to head for a shower and then do what he’d said—explore the house. This place was bigger than my parents’—no,myhome—and I didn’t even know where to start.
A quick shower later, I pulled on some comfortable jeans, boxers, and a T-shirt. I worried for a bit about whether or not I’d get into trouble with Alton for my plain boxers, but he hadn’t specified I wear anything else, so I shrugged it off and began my tour. I stopped to talk to each staff member I came upon and I liked them. Alice was the fourth person I met, and she told me she was Alton’s housekeeper. When Antoine wasn’t around, she kept track of the servants and the happenings around the mansion. She was a sweet Portuguese lady who had a habit of patting me on the cheek and telling me I was adorable and perfect for Mr. Bouchard, and I couldn’t help but laugh in embarrassment every time she did it.
After I’d escaped her, I returned to my bedroom to grab my art supplies and headed down to the kitchen where I assumed Tucker could be found—and I was right. He was working away with his earbuds in, his back turned to me. He had no idea I was there as he rocked his hips in time with whatever music blasted in his ears. It was hard to keep in the laughter when he finally spun toward me, his eyes shooting wide open. He stuttered as he shakily yanked out the wired earbuds.
“Oh, sir. Sorry, I didn’t know you were there.” A blush spread across his face and he chuckled nervously.
I waved my hand at him as I took a seat at the kitchen island on a barstool. Laughing, I rested my art supplies on the black stone countertop. “Please don’t stop on my account.”
Tucker scratched the back of his neck, his face growing redder. “Can I help you, sir? Do you need anything to eat?” He glanced around the kitchen. “I can make you whatever you want. The pantry is fully stocked. You haven’t eaten breakfast yet, right?”
I shook my head and opened my sketchbook. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
His eyebrows dipped in concern. “That’s not healthy.”
“I’ve been told.” I grinned at him as I tugged out some pencils from the case. “Can I draw you?”
He blinked at me and reminded me of an owl with those wide eyes. Tucker was adorable, not hot as sin like Alton, but he had a cute schoolboy look. His curly hair was a little too long to be stylish and flirted with his blue eyes, and he had a few extra pounds at his middle—enough to make him look like he would be nice to hug. “Sure. I... um, do you need me to stand still? It’s just... I have lunch to prepare—”
“It’s fine, you can work.”
“At least let me get you food, too. What would you like?” He pressed his lips together tightly and I had a feeling I wasn’t winning this argument. “I can make you lángos. Have you ever tasted it?”
“What’s lángos?” We only had one chef at our house, and while her food was delicious, it mainly consisted of Mom’s favorite Mexican dishes and good old American standards.
Tucker clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “Oh boy, you’re in for a treat. They’re not healthy per se, but they’re Hungarian street food. Dough deep fried with olive oil brushed on them, and garlic and sour cream. Some people like adding salami on top, if that’s your thing.”
My stomach growled and I laughed, patting it. “Me and my gut love the sound of that.”
“Awesome.” Tucker danced around the kitchen like a man in his happiest place, and that didn’t surprise me. The few times I’d seen him, he seemed truly overjoyed by the prospect of cooking. I was jealous. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that way about something, even art. I loved it, but the day Dad told me I was a disappointment for going to art school he’d managed to squash some of my enthusiasm for it. I’d never quite shaken the shame.
I sighed and focused on the blank page staring up at me from my sketchbook. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d drawn for the sake of being happy, except Sunday afternoon when Alton had me in that extravagant underwear and robe in his office. I’d missed this.
“Can I ask you something, Tucker?” My voice was quiet; the only other sound Tucker humming to a song in his head now that he had the buds out of his ears.
“Hm?” He glanced at me over his shoulder from where he stood in front of the stovetop. A wide pan sat on one of the burners and he poured oil into it. I supposed that was what he would use to cook the dough.
“How long have you worked for Alton?” I started to draw, splitting my focus between Tucker and the no-longer-blank paper.
“Mm, let me think.” He turned and grabbed a bowl I hadn’t noticed sitting on the counter with a clean dish towel covering it and placed it in front of me. He tugged the towel off, revealing risen dough. He’d obviously had plans to make something with it. “I started here when I was twenty-two, fresh out of culinary school. Mr. Bouchard saw potential in me. So, that’s been about three years now.”
“You’re twenty-five?” My mouth dropped open. “You don’t look that old.”
He laughed, ducking his head as red spread across his cheeks again. “Thanks, I think.”
I studied him for a few seconds, tracing the curves of his face with my gaze before I focused on my sketchbook. “Are you happy here? Do you like working for Alton?”
He pulled the dough out of the bowl and broke it up into four even balls before he started to stretch it out. It was amazing watching him at work because he made it look easy. “He’s a good boss. He treats me well and pays even better.” He grinned at me. “I’m a lucky guy. One of the ladies I went to school with now works in a restaurant and says it’s hell. The chef she works under is worse than Ramsay, and she says he has her crying every day. Mr. Bouchard respects my skills, doesn’t complain, rarely makes special requests, and I live in a carriage house at the back of the grounds for free.”
I sighed. What had I expected to hear? Something bad about Alton? He didn’t seem as awful as I’d thought he was to begin with, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Nevertheless, he’d still taken me to that horrible death match. I would never get it out of my mind. I understood he hadn’t set it up, merely attended, but what was wrong with people? Part of me thought about calling the police, and the rest of me wondered if they didn’t already know about it.
