Add Spice to Taste by R.G. Emanuelle

continued with his flowers. “Oops, did I just let the cat out of the bag? Did I just burst your bubble about true love, or of finding a sugar mama? I’m so sorry.”
    He wasn’t really sorry. The only person I’d heard who was more sarcastic than this guy was me.
    “What?”
    “Listen, everyone falls in love with Brit. You can hardly blame them. She’s gorgeous. And she’s a charmer.” He gave me a knowing wink. Unfortunately, I was not in the know.
    “I think you have the wrong idea. I’m just here to cook for the party.”
    Michael looked at me out of the corner of his eye and smirked. “Yeah. Right.”
    His snarkiness made me want to pluck one of those calla lilies and shove it up his ass. How dare he assume anything about me?
    But I shrugged disinterestedly and went back to the kitchen. The bag of flour made a dull thud as I dropped it on the counter. Michael came around the bend, a vase of brilliant purple blossoms in hand. I really wasn’t interested in anymore of his innuendos. “Look, I’m sure you see lots of girls around here, but I’m not one of them. I’m a professional chef and this is a professional job,” I stated bluntly, then turned around to set up a workstation next to the stove.
    “Sure,” he said. “Whatever.”
    I decided to ignore him and dampened a towel, flattened it on the counter, and placed a cutting board on top of it. I knew the cutting board was made of larch wood and handcrafted in Nova Scotia because I’d seen one just like it in a cookware store once and almost fell over when I saw the price tag. Never thought I’d actually ever work on one. Only the best for rich people—even if it never gets used.
    Behind me, the rustling of flowers and leaves had stopped and I could almost feel Michael’s eyes boring into the back of my head. Well, he could stare all he wanted. I had work to do and I assumed that once his flowers were all arranged, he’d take off. Fuck him.
    I had lost myself in the task of chopping onions and was mentally ticking off the things I needed to do next, when Michael’s voice brought me out of my head.
    “Brit doesn’t do anything without a reason.”
    I turned around, knife point up. “Excuse me?”
    “Brit always has a reason for everything she does.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “What I’m saying is, don’t be surprised if you end up between Brit’s sheets.”
    It’s not as if I hadn’t thought about being in Brit’s sheets—or at least just seeing Brit naked—but the suggestion—by a total stranger, no less—that Brit and I would actually have some sort of conjugal visit after the ball ended made my entire body flush and prickle with humiliation. Like I was some kind of whore. Chef with Happy Ending. Thank God Julianna would be here with me.
    It was suddenly so hot that my chef jacket became unbearable. I put down my knife and took the jacket off. With the back of my hand, I wiped sweat from my forehead, then moved to the sink to wash up.
    Michael laughed. What the hell was he laughing at? I turned to look at him again. He had gone into the dining room, on the other side of the kitchen, and was placing shiny glass orbs in a clear glass bowl on the Medieval-castle-length dining room table. Each one of those balls probably cost more than my monthly food bill.
    “What’s so funny?” I asked, annoyed.
    “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you.” He said when he returned to the kitchen. With one hand on the island, he lifted his eyebrows in bemusement. “It’s just that you came in here so innocent, thinking that all you’re here for is to cook.”
    “But I am. You see all this food?” I swept my hand in an arc from one side of the kitchen to the other. “This is going to get cooked. And it’s going to get served. Brit hired me because she thinks I’m good. Which I am.” I was starting to get insulted. The bird-of-paradise looked as if it would hurt more than the calla lily going up his ass.
    “Oh, sure. I have no doubt