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“We don’t fuck around when it comes to handbags,” she says, her face deadly serious. “Certainly not when it comes to Dior.”
She grabs several rolls with her chopsticks and sets them on a plate.
“Help yourself,” she says, gesturing to the table.
“This will feed a small country,” I inform her before stuffing a California roll into my mouth.
“Whatever we don’t eat, I’ll take home to Caleb. He loves sushi.”
“Will it still be good?”
“Well, the chef is coming back in about thirty minutes to gather this all up in coolers and take it to my house.”
I nod, trying not to choke on the roll in my mouth. “Right. The chef.”
London tilts her head to the side, watching me. “You’re not going to get all weird on me for things like that, are you?”
“Weird? No. It makes sense. You’re a single mom who works a lot of hours, with responsibilities I don’t even know about. You can afford to hire all the help you can get, and I think you should.”
“Exactly,” she says with a smile. “The chef is a must-have for me. Without her, we’d be in trouble. I never learned to cook well. I can do PB&J and macaroni and cheese from a box. And I handle breakfast just fine, as long as I can just add milk or pop something into the toaster oven. But when it comes to meals? No, I need help with that, and it’s not good to eat fast food every day, although my son would love that.”
“So, the chef doesn’t live with you and follow you around with platters of fresh food?”
“Jesus, does that happen somewhere?” She licks something off of her thumb. “Because if that’s a thing, I want it.”
She laughs now and reaches for a napkin.
“No, she makes us dinners and stows them in my fridge or freezer. She also handles Caleb’s lunches, although I pack them, and if she has extra of something, she’ll bring me lunch here. Today, she called and said she’d made too much sushi and asked if I wanted some. Of course, the answer is always yes to sushi.”
“Naturally. You don’t have to explain your lifestyle to me, you know.”
“That’s not why I did it,” she replies, kicking off her shoes and stretching out her toes. “I’m not ashamed of anything. I’m definitely not ashamed of being rich. I may be indulged, but I give a lot back to this community, as well.”
“I know you do.”
“I was just sharing with you what Cher the Chef does—ya know, making conversation.”
“Her name is Cher the Chef?”
“Well, she’s a chef, and her name happens to be Cher, but Caleb calls her Cher the Chef, and it’s stuck.”
“I like it. What other staff do you have?”
“Well, it’s a big-ass house, so I have a housekeeper who comes in weekly to help with the big stuff, but I do our own laundry and such. I also have a gardener. And Lucy, my assistant. That’s about it.”
“That’s not outrageous,” I inform her. “You don’t have stables of horses with a guy to keep them brushed, shoed, and ready to go for you?”
“No horses.”
“You don’t have a chauffeur?”
“Nah, I like to drive.”
I grin at her. “See? You’re not extravagant at all.”
That makes her laugh and shake her hair back, running her fingers through it.
“If you’re trying to seduce me, it’s working.” I can hear the strain in my voice, and her eyes widen as she looks over at me in surprise.
