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We round the long hall, which spits us out in the living room.
“You call the chef, Chef?”
I feel like I’m in an alternate universe. A universe where there are house managers, private chefs, and maids. A universe . . . in the eighteenth century?
I don’t belong.
I don’t want to belong.
Not even for a second.
Fuck, if someone puts a chastity belt on me, I’m going to scream.
Because I know, without a doubt, the only way Trent Aldridge would let me inside permanently is as someone serving him.
Hard pass.
Gail adjusts a painting as we pass. It didn’t even look crooked in the first place, but she shifts it no more than a centimeter at the furthest edge and continues walking as if this is normal for her.
“Mr. Aldridge brought a chef in from a Michelin-star restaurant, and well . . .” She trails off, heeled toes pounding the hardwood floors at a pace nearly impossible for my short legs to keep up with. “Chef likes to be called that.”
“Um. Okay.”
She laughs, which is a sound I don’t expect from her. So, naturally, it’s the driest laugh I’ve ever heard.
“Believe me when I warn you,” she says, stopping to blow away nonexistent dust from a nearby surface. “You don’t want to piss off Chef.”
“Got it. Don’t piss off the chef.”
My comment is met with a passive expression, and I have a feeling Gail doesn’t do emotions. That’s okay. Supposing she treats me fairly, we’ll have no issues.
Maybe we can even be allies.
“How many people does Mr. Aldridge employ?” A hundred? A million? The entire state of New fucking York?
“There is Chef. Michael, the driver. His personal assistant, Allison. He also has Brandon, who runs security. Christina cleans the place, but she’s on leave for personal reasons. There’s also me and now you. Seven total. But often more. It really depends on where he is going or who he is working with. Sometimes, Brandon brings in more security, and it gets crowded.” Her lips turn down at the end, like the idea of people invading her territory displeases her.
“Why does one man need seven employees?” I mumble under my breath, and the moment I do, I realize that she could probably hear me. Meh, good thing I don’t care.
We were getting off on the right foot. I would hate to ruin that. Maybe Gail can be a good person to have on my side in this house.
Sure enough, her response is fast—and in defense of her boss. “He’s a very busy man, and he works with many important people.”
“Sorry. That was rude of me to ask.”
“It’s okay,” she says in a tone that implies it isn’t. “I’m sure this is quite the change. I’m not exactly certain what landed you in this position but know that Mr. Aldridge is usually a fair man.”
Fair.
My brows shoot upward.
I take what I said before back. Gail will never be my ally. Not with the way she waxes poetic about the devil that is Trent Aldridge. I want to roll my eyes at her, but I know that will not do me any favors with someone who is, technically, my superior.
I have to at least try to be friendly.
Also, it’s not her fault. Truly, she probably doesn’t know what he’s done to me. I’m sure to the rest of his staff, he’s wonderful. Not a manipulative ass who canceled my present and is holding my future hostage.
I follow Gail into the kitchen. The place is massive, like everything Trent owns and does. It’s made of dark, earthy materials. Surprisingly welcoming.
