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“No, it’s not. Plus, I found out what you did for my rent, and while I appreciate the gesture, I’d like to pay for that on my own too. So, if you could take those amounts out of my check each week, I’d appreciate it.”
Confusion swirled in his eyes. When he blinked, a flash of regret hit his stare. “I offended you.”
“No. It was really thoughtful, but I can’t accept these kinds of favors. I don’t want anything that I didn’t work for.”
He didn’t say another word, yet he took the check from my hand and then placed his headphones back on. As he began to walk away, he paused and looked back toward me. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He took a deep inhalation and flinched a little as he tried again.
Was it always that hard for him? To gather his thoughts?
“Can you do me a favor?” he asked.
“Anything you’d like.”
“When you make me a meal, can you make enough for Kelly, too?”
“Yes, of course. Not a problem.”
He slid his hands into his pockets and thanked me.
“If there’s anything else you need from me, I’m all ears. Truly, Oliver. I know I’ve said it before, but this job is more than I could’ve dreamed of. Thank you for the opportunity.”
He almost smiled, and I almost loved it.
His full lips parted again to speak, but no words escaped him. Instead, he continued to walk away, leaving me wondering what it was that he’d planned to say.
Later that afternoon, a voice snapped as I was preparing lunch for Oliver.
“Who are you?”
I looked up from the chicken breast I was slicing and smiled at the woman standing in front of me. Cam Jones. The Cam Jones.
Oh my gosh.
I loved Cam Jones.
She looked even more beautiful in person. She was wearing a sports bra, leggings, and a honey-colored wig, and her makeup was done flawlessly. Perfect winged eyeliner, top-notch lipstick. Cam looked like a goddess, and she was standing only a few feet away from me.
I dropped the knife quickly and hurried over to her side, wiping my hands against my apron. “Oh my gosh, hi! You’re Cam Jones. It’s so nice to meet you.” I beamed, holding my hand out toward her for a shake.
She glanced down at my hand and then back up toward me. “And you are?”
“Oh. Right. You asked me that when you came in. I’m Emery, Oliver’s new chef.”
“Chef?” she huffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’ve been asking Oliver to get a chef for years, and he said it was ridiculous. Who have you worked for?”
“Um, well, no one, really. I’ve worked at restaurants and hotel dining rooms in the past, but—”
“You’ve never worked with another celebrity?”
“No.”
“None? Not even a C-list celebrity? Like one of Alec Baldwin’s brothers or something?”
“No . . .”
“Jesus. Where did Oliver find you? On Yelp?”
“Close.” I snickered. “In a bar.”
“You can’t be serious.” I blankly blinked her way and she gasped. “Oh my gosh, you’re serious.” Cam pursed her lips together. “Are you truly a chef?”
“I am. Kind of.”
“Kind of?” She looked at me as if I had a horn growing from my forehead before turning away from me and shouting, “What school did you go to?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly finish my degree. But you know what they say: ‘Does every chef need an education in order to make great meals?’” And by “they” I meant Oliver.
Cam stared, looking horrified. “Yes! They do! Oliver!” she hollered, marching away from me and my extended hand that she never shook. “There’s a strange woman in our house!”
12
EMERY
Oh my gosh.
I hated Cam Jones.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that Cam Jones wasn’t the sweetheart I’d seen online. “Cruella de Vil” seemed like a more fitting title for her. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she kicked puppies during her free time. Each day she came to me with an even more bizarre request. When I made her eggs, she’d tell me she didn’t want them scrambled. When I cooked her hard boiled at her request, she’d toss them out and order me to make scrambled.
Each time she ate my food, she grimaced and only took a few bites. “This is why it’s important to not just hire anyone from the street,” she muttered once, after spitting out my chili-lime chicken salad—which, by the way, was fantastic. She was just too much of a jerk to admit that I’d created something delicious.
Oliver, on the other hand, devoured every meal I’d created, and he’d compliment me on them in his very few words way. “Fantastic.” “Brilliant.” “Great.” “Seconds?”
That was a chef’s dream word—“seconds.”
What bothered me most about Cam wasn’t how she treated me; it was how she treated Oliver. I had thick skin growing up with the parents I had—not much bothered me, especially from Cam, because it wasn’t personal. It couldn’t have been personal because she didn’t know me. Her hatred and crude remarks said more about her than they did me. Yet with Oliver things were different. They knew each other—at least they should’ve. They’d been together for years.
