Released: MC Secret Baby Romance (New Adult Contemporary Biker Romance) (43 page)

All of this would have been fine if I'd either (a) found a job or (b) saved enough money to be able to stay without one. The only thought worse for me than having to crawl back to my mom's cabin up in the Catskills with her endless parade of lovers and constant forgetfulness was the thought of winding up on the streets of Boston because I'd failed at being an adult.

In desperation, I applied for every Craigslist ad, every box in the help wanted section of the classifieds, everything.

How many people called me back?, two. One of them ended up being an escort agency, and the other was for the position of live-in cook. I was undoubtedly better at sex than cooking, but decided that I felt more comfortable receiving a wage for the latter.

That was what brought me to the house on the edge of the city that was too beautiful for its own good. It was in a more run-down section of town, which I felt was odd. It probably had been a rundown house at some point, but the fresh colors and spotless roof tiles told me that it had been recently renovated.

Calling it a house would be a bit like calling a cardboard box a ski chalet. It was a mansion, really. As soon as I double-checked the address I'd hastily drawn on a napkin, and seen that the mansion dominating the landscape was my destination, I had almost turned right back around to go to the bus stop.

The only thing that stopped me was the realization that if I bombed this interview, literally my only options were my mom's stewed beets and hummus or prostitution.

Both were dire prospects.

So, I did what any person would do in a life or death situation like that: I lied.

Richard

Mina, my last interviewee of the day, was seven minutes late when Gaston led her into my study. I would have turned her away for her impudence right then if she hadn't been so beautiful. I was ready to, as well. I nearly told Gaston not to answer the door, but I realized then that I'd have nothing left to do for the day — and no cook — so I allowed him to let her in; at least.

A tinkling laugh floated down the hallway, which was odd. Gaston was many things, but funny was not one of them. Perhaps she was a lunatic, laughing at herself. I wondered what it would be like to have a lunatic as a cook.

I wasn't sure what I expected when she walked through the archway to my study. The other applicants had mostly been retired and looking for extra income to supplement their benefits. I had received a couple who were highly trained chefs as well.

Most of the applicants had balked at the live-in aspect including the inflexibility of the schedule. I couldn’t afford to hire two cooks so that they could share days off. Monetarily, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but the more people in my household, the more chance there was of someone sticking their nose where it didn’t belong.

Mina Cooper clearly did not fit in either of those categories.

The girl that Gaston ushered in was in her twenties with curves that demanded attention. Her heart shaped face was framed by flaming red hair, which hung down past her shoulders in light waves. The sense of irritation that had been building prior to her arrival began to ebb in her presence. I couldn’t decide whether it was because of her charming smile or because of the lust that began to take its place.

“Mr. Turner,” Gaston said. “This is Miss Mina Cooper.” He turned and exited the room, closing the great curved door behind him.

Mina, who had been looking around in wonder before we were introduced, now had her eyes glued on me as I stood gracefully from my chair and extended my hand.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Cooper,” I said. “I was worried that you’d gotten lost.”

From the sheepish expression that took over her face, I knew that she understood my veiled criticism.

“Sorry!” she said, reaching for and shaking my hand. Her handshake was limp. “Turns out there aren’t a lot of busses out here.”

I gestured to the chair across from me and I resumed my seat behind the desk.

“You’re far from the most qualified of my applicants,” I said shortly. “Tell me why I should hire you.”

She looked surprised at how to-the-point I was. If she had been expecting friendliness, she was in the wrong house.

“Uh,” she stammered, “because I’m a good cook.”

“Everyone I interviewed today is a good cook,” I retorted.

She fumbled for words, eventually coming out with “because I really need it.”

An unorthodox way to answer the question, I thought. In its essence, her statement relied on my caring about her situation in life, which I didn’t. Still, her frankness made me smile.

“Why do you really need it?”

“If I don’t get a job by the end of the month, I’m going to have to go live with my mom and her weird man-bun boyfriends or start tricking.”

That made me laugh. “Time is ticking for you then,” I said, in reference to the month drawing to a close in only two days. “I’m curious; would you rather live with your mother or sell your body?”

“I’d rather be a cook.”

She was bold. I liked that. She also seemed innocent, which the beast inside of me liked. It wasn’t that I thought she was a virgin — no. With pouty red lips like that, her appearance was anything but sweet and virginal. It was that she seemed somehow... unspoiled by the world.

She was the kind of girl who believed in miracles and good things coming to those who wait. Her big brown eyes had never seen true pain. That intrigued me. I had grown up among society’s elite, and even they — with their trust funds and private education — so rarely exhibited the same kind of innocence.

I doubted her cooking skills. I doubted her ability to be a good employee. But, the one thing I didn’t doubt was her ability to entertain me.

Mina

“You’re hired,” he said.

My heart did a flip. Well, it had been doing many flips over the course of the interview. The first and most substantial one had occurred when I first saw my new employer. In a mansion so far from civilization with a wizened butler and the need of a cook, I had imagined that I would be being interviewed by a crotchety old man.

He was crotchety, no doubt, but he certainly wasn’t old. I would have placed him no older than thirty five, and damn was he good looking. Well-built, black hair with one or two silver strands peeking through, and piercing blue eyes that I struggled to hold eye contact with. He belonged on the cover of a magazine, not hidden away in some mansion on a bus route that I thought the busses themselves often forgot about. Only adding to this strangeness was the fact that he had hired me.

I tried to hide my excitement at his declaration, but I barely managed to stifle a shout of glee. It came out as a tiny yip, which elicited a look from him that suggested he was about to withdraw his offer.

Before he could, I said, “When can I start?”

He gave me a mirthless grin. “You start now. Gaston will show you to the kitchens.”

My eyes bulged. “But my stuff…”

“Get it tomorrow. I’m hungry.”

I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

He stared back. I took that as my sign to go with Gaston to see the kitchen.

I jumped up out of my chair and over to the door, which opened to reveal Gaston waiting on the other side. “This way,” he said.

I followed him down a long hallway that led past several other rooms. I tried to look in them as we passed, but for an old man, he was spry. When we got to the kitchen, my jaw dropped.

Granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, an island with pots and pans hanging over the top of it… it was like something from the movies. I immediately knew I was in over my head. I needed to be practical if I was going to convince Mr. Turner that I was worth keeping around.

Gaston left me to my own devices, which was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I wouldn’t have him hovering over me as I scrambled to make something edible. On the other, there would be nobody there to help me if things went awry.

The stove was a gas-top, which made me incredibly nervous. Most people, I gathered, preferred that for cooking. I wasn’t sure why; I preferred to heat things up without possibly catching myself or others on fire.

I started in the fridge; half hoping that there would be something in there that I could warm up and add a couple sprigs of parsley to or something. Unfortunately, it was stocked with fresh fruit, vegetables, and what looked to be very expensive cuts of meat. There was enough food in there to feed a family of four for a week.

Rich people.

I chose steak over chicken because I was less likely to kill my new boss that way, then I scanned the rest of the fridge’s contents, wondering what the hell you were supposed to serve with steak. Steak and potatoes was a thing, right?

There weren’t any potatoes in the fridge.

The closest thing I could find to a potato was a cauliflower. They looked practically the same when cooked, right? Great; I saw a bottle of teriyaki sauce in the side door, and decided I would use that for the steak, and then I saw some grated cheddar and figured that would go well with the cauliflower.

I smiled. I had a plan.

I approached the stove with hesitation. It couldn’t be any harder than a regular stovetop, right?

It was much harder.

First, when I spun the handle, gas just started coming out. I spun it back; terrified that I was going to cause the house to explode. It was a fancy stove; surely I couldn’t be expected to physically light the gas? I didn’t see any matches. I tried again, but this time, I pressed the handle in. My mom cooked exclusively on the barbeque, and that was how she turned it on.

Low and behold, it worked.

I grabbed a pan from the island and set it on the flame. That part was done. Next, I grabbed the steak and was about to set it in the pan when I realized that I had no idea how long cauliflower took to cook or how to cook it.

I had a horrifying thought: I was a worse cook than my mother.

Determined to; at least, do better than dry and tough turkey legs with spicy gravy, I pulled out my phone and quickly searched how to cook cauliflower. Apparently, steaming was a common way to cook it, so I grabbed the pot that most closely resembled the one in the photo and set to work. Only when the cauliflower was done did I put the steak in the pan. Then, I sprinkled some cheese on the cauliflower and put it into the oven to melt.

In less than half an hour, I had a steak that, once drizzled in sauce, looked somewhat tasty with a side of delicious smelling cauliflower and cheese. I didn’t think I’d done too poorly, truth be told.

Mr. Turner hadn’t told me where the dining room was or what to do when I was done, and I couldn’t find Gaston. I decided to try my luck in the study.

Mr. Turner was still in the study, luckily. I walked through the door and he looked up abruptly from his laptop, his expression morphing from irritated to confused in two seconds flat. Normally, he looked dark and brooding, but when he was perplexed, he almost looked innocent. It was strange.

“I forgot to ask what to do when I was done,” I said by way of explanation, placing the plate down on the desk next to him with a fork and knife.

His mouth was set in a hard line as his eyes went from me to the food and to me again.

“It’s teriyaki steak,” I said. “And cauliflower.”

“And cheese.”

“You’ve got it!” I exclaimed brightly.

On the outside, I might have looked bright and at ease, but on the inside, I was a wreck. He didn’t look happy. What would happen to me if he didn’t like my food? Would he kick me out and charge me for the food I’d wasted? Could I even afford a steak like that?

But, he didn’t say anything more about the food. He simply said, “Very well.”

I took that as my queue to leave, but he placed a staying hand on my arm. “Please, sit. I don’t like to dine alone.”

I wasn’t sure what I was meant to say to him, but I followed his direction and sat in the same chair that I’d been interviewed in. I watched him tensely as he cut into his first piece of steak.

He inspected it, saying, “In the future, I like my steak medium-rare.”

“Right,” I said. “My apologies; that piece is obviously…”

He watched me as I looked at the piece of meat on his fork. It was mostly grey, but there was a little bit of pink in the middle. Wasn’t that medium-rare?

“This is medium,” he supplied.

“Right,” I nodded furiously; “of course.”

If I didn’t know any better, I might have thought I saw the corners of his lips twitch in amusement.

Richard

She was an awful cook. The cauliflower was mushy, the cheese went horribly with the teriyaki, and the steak had only been seared on one side. It was hands down one of the worst meals I’d ever had.

But, the hopeful look in her eyes as she watched me carve into it and the anxious way she bit her lip made it worth it. I knew then that even if she was a horrible cook, she would try to learn for me if I let her. Besides, I’d had plenty of delicious meals in my life. I could suffer a few bad ones if it meant not having to make do with an insufferable bore as a cook.

Anyway, this first test hadn’t been to ascertain her culinary skill-set. It was to see how well she handled pressure, and whether my flippant attitude would be too much for her to stomach. She was still in my home and she didn’t look anywhere close to tears, so she had passed.