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Marcus’s smile warms. “Really? What about your grandmother?”
“She was a nurse, a really skilled one. I almost never went to the doctor when I was living with them. Grandma can handle anything short of major surgery.”
“Mr. Carelli?” A thin man with ramrod-straight posture steps into our path as we approach the table. With a noticeable British accent, he announces, “Your food is ready.”
“Excellent, thank you.” Marcus glances at me. “Emma, this is Geoffrey, my butler. Geoffrey, this is Emma, my… guest.”
I manage a smile despite the sudden acceleration of my pulse. I caught that moment of hesitation before Marcus said “guest,” the split second of indecision that must be as rare for him as a lobster dinner is for me. Had he been about to say something else?
My date?
My friend, maybe?
There’s no way he was going to say “my girlfriend.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Geoffrey says, inclining his head. “Now, please, have a seat. I will bring out the food.”
He hurries away, and Marcus leads me to the table—which is set with two straw mats topped with square white plates, sleek modern glasses, and gleaming utensils next to white cloth napkins. In the middle is a carafe of water infused with lemon, mint, and cucumber, and next to it is what looks like fresh-squeezed orange juice, along with a pitcher of dark green liquid.
Marcus pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down, once again feeling overwhelmed. Not only does this brunch seem fancier than at any restaurant, but I’m still wearing a robe. Not that having my own clothes would’ve helped; I’m pretty sure a single fork here costs more than my entire outfit.
The worst part is that I can’t pay for my portion of this meal—unless I offer to cover half of one morning’s worth of Geoffrey’s salary, along with the cost of the ingredients. And even I know that’s ridiculous. My best bet is to reciprocate by making Marcus a meal at my place one of these days, but after seeing the way he lives, the idea of asking him over to my tiny studio makes me cringe.
I might as well ask Queen Elizabeth—the monarch, not my cat—to have dinner in a closet.
“Water, orange juice, or green juice?” Marcus asks, and I force a smile to my lips.
“Green juice, please.” There’s no need for him to know I’ve never tried the overpriced health elixir before—or that all of this is making me feel like a fish out of water.
Marcus pours the green liquid into my glass, and I take a sip. It’s surprisingly good, tart and refreshing instead of bitter. I can taste the Granny Smith apple underneath the grassy flavor of the greens, and I down the rest of the glass in a few long gulps.
“More?” Marcus asks wryly, and I nod, because why not.
It’s a delicious way to meet my weekly quota of fruits and vegetables in one morning.
As I’m sipping on the refill, Geoffrey comes out with a silver-domed tray. Setting it on the table, he removes the dome, revealing two plates with a perfectly folded omelet on each, along with two little bowls of cut-up fruit and a basket of fluffy biscuits. The omelets are covered with some kind of creamy orange sauce and topped with a sprig of parsley, and it all smells absolutely scrumptious.
Definitely fancier than any restaurant brunch I’ve had.
“Shiitake and oyster mushroom omelet with crab and lobster, topped with spicy gorgonzola sauce,” Geoffrey announces, putting one plate in front of me and the other in front of Marcus. He then does the same thing with the fruit bowls and puts the biscuit basket between us, adding a pair of tongs for easy grabbing.
“Thank you, Geoffrey. It looks amazing,” Marcus says, and I echo his sentiment, barely able to swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth. How is it possible that I was thinking of lobster only a few minutes earlier and now there’s a lobster omelet in front of me?
No, scratch that, a shiitake and oyster mushroom omelet with crab and lobster—as in, all the foods I love and can rarely afford in one insane dish?
The butler inclines his head and disappears back into the kitchen, and I dig into the omelet, my fork trembling from eagerness. Holy. Cow. I nearly orgasm on the spot as the spicy richness of the gorgonzola sauce touches my tongue, followed by the delicious texture of the seafood chunks wrapped in mushroom-flavored egg.
I must’ve moaned out loud and closed my eyes because when I open them, I find Marcus staring at me like I’ve just stripped naked. His face is tightly drawn, his eyes burning with savage hunger as his omelet sits untouched in front of him.
“Sorry about that,” I mumble, my face turning hot as I realize I must’ve looked like I was literally having an orgasm. Again. At this rate, he’s going to think I have a food fetish. “It’s just really, really good.”
