Page 31 of The Chef

Sandy’s right.

Even though I put on an uncaring mask, I’m only trying to hide the fact that Cleo broke my heart, and that I’ve still got to mend it. I’m still feeling the pain.

But I can do this on my own, alright? I don’t need some women, like Sandy and Dominika to act like amateur psychologists for me. I’m a man, I can deal with my feelings on my own, thank you very much.

I don’t need their help.

I don’t need Bay’s help.

I can manage on my own.

Fuck Cleo. Fuck Sandy.

And, most of all, fuck Bay.

11

TWO MONTHS EARLIER

CLIFF

I check myself out in the hotel mirror. My body is perfect. Years of working out - hard - have toned my body into one hell of a sculpture. My thick hard abs are visibly popping out, and you can trace your finger around the edges of my solid pecs. My jawline is sharp and defined. My short designer stubble is immaculate.

I look like a Greek God.

Oh, yes. I do.

I admire my body as I pull my shirt over my shoulders and I wink at myself in the mirror.

Handsome devil, you.

Satisfied, I turn and stroll away from the hotel mirror and towards the balcony. Of course, I’ve booked out the most expensive and best suite in the luxury hotel. Nothing lower would do for me. I deserve the very best.

Some may call me cocky or arrogant, but I prefer the term cultured. Like my body, I don’t put up with anything below perfection.

Standing on the balcony, I take in the foreign air and look down at the famous city below me, at all the buildings lit up below my hotel suite.

Paris.

City of lights.

City of love.

I’ve been here for a few weeks. For the past few years, I’ve been traveling through Europe. Partying. Fucking. Just like the kings of old, Europe’s been my domain, and I’m doing what any self-respecting twenty-something-year-old drop-dead gorgeous bachelor with tons of money to spare should do. I’ve been traveling, clubbing, and fucking hot women.

But now I want to settle down.

I’ve had my fill of booze and women, and it does help that I’ve found a girl who’s a keeper. A girl who’s perfect for me, both in looks and class.

Cleo Dash.

I’ve been dating the American supermodel for nearly a year now, and everything’s been going perfectly. We’re the perfect match. We’re both incredibly good-looking, rich, successful, and young. We have it all. Anyone would agree we’re the perfect match.

I scan my eyes over the Parisian skyline. The Eiffel Tower sits alone in the distance, in full view of my hotel suite balcony. It’s lit up in a golden haze.

Damn right Paris is one of my favorite cities.

Ring.