—JENNIE

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Between creating a menu for the week, shopping, unpacking, and getting my new kitchen in order, I barely hear from Lisa the next day. She sends a note to skip breakfast, then has her lunch—a roast-chicken-and-avocado salad with a lemon vinaigrette—in the upstairs den. North comes to collect it, and I go about my business. So far, I've been told via text that I'll start all the administrative duties later. I take the opportunity to drive out to my favorite seafood monger and come home with succulent and glossy shrimps and scallops.

My catering kitchen was a sterile industrial space with stainless counters, concrete floors covered with dull-gray epoxy, harsh fluorescent lights, and rows of overhead steel vent fans that left a constant hum. It was hot when cooking and cool during early-morning prep. Nothing meant for comfort, but everything I needed to feed mass numbers of people.

Lisa's kitchen is warm and inviting. The wide-plank hardwood floors are silky smooth underfoot. Sunlight streams in through the windows and tracks a path across the honed marble counters as the time passes.

There is a cozy wood booth tucked into a corner nook that overlooks the ocean. I sit there, drinking a latte made with the commercial-grade espresso maker, and flick through magazines I've neglected for months—never finding the time to relax while running my business.

Surrounded by the sun and the sea and the thoughtful beauty of the house, the long-held tension that has settled deep into my flesh over the past few years starts to lose its grip.

With a slower rhythm than I used in my catering kitchen, I start dinner. There is a different kind of pleasure cooking here. I'm not in a rush. Instead, I sink into the essence of the food, the crisp sound of my knife slicing through red peppers, the fresh clean scent the vegetable gives off as its flesh yields to the blade.

My breathing becomes slow and deep, almost as if I'm meditating.

I'd stopped cooking like this—for an individual, for myself. Somehow cooking had become a race, a need to prove my talent, but in doing so, I'd distanced myself from the very thing I love.

"You thinking deep thoughts, Tot?"

Lisa's voice pulls me out of my zone with a jolt. She's by the kitchen booth, sitting in a patch of amber sunlight that colors her skin deep bronze. It also emphasizes the bruising around her eye and the lines of strain along her mouth. She's leaning back in the wheelchair with a casual air, but there is a deliberate stillness about her that makes her pose a lie. She is in pain.

"I was actually thinking about how much I love to cook," I tell her, moving to the fridge.

"Just as long as you're not contemplating another tomato launch," she says lightly.

I cut her a glance, and she widens her eyes as if entirely innocent. Snorting, I pull out some milk. "Alas, the tomatoes are all used up. But I do have an extra head of cauliflower, so I wouldn't tempt me."

"Ouch." She holds a hand up in surrender. "I'll be good now. Cross my heart." Biting back a smile, she draws an X over her chest, then tracks my movements as I collect honey and spices. "You always did flow around a kitchen like you were dancing to music only you could hear."

My brows lift, a beat skipping in my heart. "Did I?"

"You never noticed?" She runs the edge of her thumb along the armrest of her chair, eyes on the movement. "I used to envy that ease. How you found a place to fit in perfectly."

"One place," I correct thickly. "Whereas you fit in everywhere else."

She takes that in with a short exhale, and her lips press together, caught between a smile and a grimace. "Looks can be deceiving." She nods toward me. "What are you doing now?"

"Making some turmeric lattes." I put the spiced milk under the foaming nozzle on the espresso machine and let it froth and heat. The scent of cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and turmeric fills the air.

"It smells like Thanksgiving," she says as I pour the lattes into two cups.

"Here." I offer her one and then take a seat on the booth.

Lisa moves up to the end of the table, then takes a sip. "Delicious."

"Mmm . . . turmeric is an anti-inflammatory, which can help with pain."

She pauses, eyes meeting mine over the rim of her porcelain cup. "It isn't that bad."

"Why do people pretend that they're not in pain when they clearly are?"

"Because we don't like being fussed over," she answers with a small smile.

"See, that's the strange part about it," I say, cupping my latte. "People love being fussed over. I've never heard so much whining as when someone is sick."

A gleam of challenge lights her eyes. "You're missing the key factor." Lisa sets her cup on the table. A bit of creamy foam clings to the corner of her lip, and she licks it away with the tip of her tongue. "People only do that when they expect someone to kiss and cuddle them, then tuck them into bed."

I blame the steam from my latte for the hot tightness over my cheeks.

Lisa's gaze zeroes in on them, and her lip curls upward. "So unless you're offering?"

"Remember the cauliflower, Lisa. My aim is stellar."

She huffs out a laugh. "Didn't think so." Then a speculative look enters her eyes. "You got a boyfriend who might give you a hard time over this arrangement?"

I smirk into the well of my cup. "A little late to be asking that, don't you think?"

"Wouldn't be my problem," she says with a shrug. "I'm simply curious."

"My last relationship ended a few months ago." Ah, Tae. He'd been perfect on paper: cute without being intimidating, nice without being challenging, a successful marketing exec with his own condo. He liked giving oral and didn't fall asleep directly after sex. Always a plus. It also had been too easy to let him go, which means it had been the right thing to do.

Lisa sits back in her chair and rests her hands on her abs. "What happened?"

"We didn't suit."

"Didn't suit." She sounds skeptical as if she assumes I'd been dumped and was embarrassed to admit it.

I set my cup down with a sigh. "He snored."

Lisa barks out a laugh. "You dumped a guy because he snored? Jesus, Jennie, everyone snores now and then."

"I know. I'm not a total jerk." I glare at her when she raises a brow. "I'm not. You weren't there. This was not normal. He snored so badly his dog would run out of the freaking room and cower. The neighbor would pound on the walls, for pity's sake."

Lisa chortles, grinning wide. "And he didn't know?"

"The man slept like he was in a snore-induced coma. Meanwhile, I couldn't sleep a wink with him around." A shudder passes through me at the memory—like a chain saw meeting a boulder. "Maybe if I'd been in love with him, it would have been different. The sex was great, I'll say that. He was very good with his—"

"You really don't have to elaborate," Lisa deadpans.

I fail at hiding my smile. "Anyway, if I couldn't even spend an actual night with him, how could I maintain a relationship that was doomed to never move forward? And you?" I counter, wanting the spotlight off my romantic failures.

"I can safely report that no woman has accused me of snoring."

"Har. Har. You know what I meant. You have some girlfriend who's going to look at me funny when she finds out I'm living here?"

Her tone becomes droll. "I'd hope any girlfriend I'd have would trust me enough to hire a female live-in chef, but no, I haven't had a girlfriend since . . . well, your sister." Her mouth twists as if tasting something off.

"Truly," I squeak, not believing it. Ten years, and no other close relationship with a woman? It's both a crime and slightly horrifying to learn that Jisoo has been her only girlfriend. Did Jisoo break the mold for her? God, I don't want to be here knowing that.

Thoughts of Jisoo have my insides coiling tight. I wonder where she is and if she can feel my ire like a chill on her back.

Lisa pulls a face. "I'm not cut out for long term. It's no fun for me. I'd rather go for casual dating, frankly."

Now that I can believe. But Jisoo fills the space between us like a ghost. All right, more like a poltergeist; Jisoo would never be the type to quietly haunt.

"I am truly sorry about Jisoo, you know," I say to Lisa. "I'm so ashamed of what she did."

Her eyes dart between mine, a small frown forming. "She doesn't deserve you, Jennie. She never did."

My answering smile is tight and bittersweet. "And yet I still love her. Go figure."

We finish our lattes in pensive silence, and then I wash out the cups while she studies me.

"Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes," I tell her.

"Okay." She doesn't make a move to go.

"You want me to serve it here?"

Warm brown eyes move over me. "I want you to eat with me."

I go still. "That wasn't part of the deal."

Lisa tilts her head as if trying to view me from a new angle. Whatever she sees has her features smoothing out, wry humor filling her gaze. "You afraid to eat with me?"

"I'm not afraid." But I am. Less than twenty-four hours I've been in her orbit, and already I'm in over my head. As a teen, I knew exactly how to handle Lisa: aim for head-on collision; sort out the collateral damage later. This Lisa keeps disarming me with moments of rare honesty and sly humor. This Lisa flirts. She cajoles. She can probably charm a thief into turning themselves in.

I take too long to say anything else, and Lisa's expression darkens. "You haven't changed, have you? Still looking at me as if I'm the devil."

"Lisa," I say with a voice gone dry. "To me you were the devil."

Silence settles between us as we stare at each other. The intensity in her gaze is a living thing that I try not to quail under. Finally she blinks, and it's as if a shade has been drawn over her. "I'll have dinner in the den. Text me when it's ready."

She leaves me to my work, and I try not to feel guilty. And fail miserably.

JenLight to SooyaKim: Sometimes I really hate you.

Most of us will pretend away the shit we're dealing with in life; if we don't think about it, it isn't happening. Just like I can pretend that I am merely a cook for a famous actor. Little details such as the actor is Lisa Manoban are best pushed to the far corners of my mind.

Lisa makes it impossible to ignore her.

According to the detailed list of instructions she has provided me, Lisa likes to rise with the sun every day. Which is just plain deranged in my book; if humans were meant to get up with the sun, we wouldn't have invented blackout curtains.

Upon rising, Lisa must have her smoothie.

Said drink is a superfoods green smoothie with a list of ingredients as long as my arm, including spinach, kale, apples, and algae. I add coconut water and a half a banana for a touch of sweetness since the concoction tastes like funky socks without it.

She sends a text for her drink just as I'm pouring the goop into a large glass and cursing the early hour.

ConMan: Why am I waiting?

Rolling my eyes, I text back.

JenLight: Is this like one of those "What's the sound of one hand clapping" riddles?

Riddle me this, what's the sound of Lisa dialing 911 to report a robbery?

Asshat. Seriously, she could convey a little sense of hesitation or meekness today.

You only get three chances to hold that threat over my head. After that, I'm making a jerk-off gesture.

I don't know if Lisa takes her drink with a straw or not, but earlier I found a massive silly straw in a drawer. I plunk it in the glass as her text comes in.

Am suddenly dying to see you make this gesture. Get up here so I can use up my threat quota.

"Here" being an upstairs den at the far corner of the house with a killer view and a small corner cupola that boasts a wall of windows. Within a nearly 360-degree viewing area, Lisa sits behind a desk. She waves me in and keeps talking to someone.

"I'm fine, Rosé. The bruising around my face is nearly gone." She takes her smoothie without a glance but then pauses when the red silly straw bops her on the nose.

Attempting to be the picture of innocence, I bite the inside of my lip when she glares up at me. She holds that glare as her tongue snakes out and snares the end of the straw. It should look ridiculous, Lisa sucking hard on a twisty, loopy kid's straw, her lean cheeks hollowing out from the force she needs to get to her smoothie. But it doesn't.

I feel each tug along with the straw.

Craziness. Utter insanity.

I move to go, but she holds up a hand and points to a leather-and-chrome armchair by the window. Apparently I am to sit and stay. Bah. I cross my legs and lightly bounce my top leg with impatience.

"I have a new assistant," she says to Rosé, giving me a withering glance as she tosses the straw into a trash can. "Yes, another new one." Her lips curve just slightly.

My leg swings with more vigor. Lisa's gaze zeroes in on it, and her lids lower a fraction. I find myself rethinking my decision to wear jean shorts that draw attention to my bare legs and go still.

It doesn't stop her from staring. Her gaze turns slumberous as she leans back in her chair. "Hmm?" she murmurs into the phone.

The muscles along my inner thigh draw tight, and I uncross my legs, switching to the other leg. It's too hot in this damn room without curtains to mute the morning sun beating down on my shoulders and the tops of my breasts. I fight the urge to fan myself.

A slow smile unfurls over Lisa's lips, and she raises her head until our eyes meet. "Oh, I won't be having any problems with her."

On pain of death, her expression implies.

With deliberation, I lift my middle finger and pretend to put lipstick on with it. Her smile turns positively gleeful, her teeth catching on her lower lip as if to rein it in. "Call it instinct," she says to Rosé. And then she faces the ocean, taking another long drink of her smoothie.

Rosé says something that makes her nostrils flare in clear irritation. "For fuck's sake, no." Another pause. "Because she's my employee and just . . . no."

She sounds so offended that my insides pinch. Because it doesn't take a genius to know Rosé is asking if we're screwing each other. Lisa rubs her forehead. "She's not an actress." She huffs out a truly entertained laugh. "Believe me, she wants no part of this life. You'll understand when you meet her."

The smug assurance in her tone rubs over my skin like grit.

"No more questions," she says with an impatient wave of her hand. "I'm going now."

Cool quiet falls over the room, and I content myself with listening to the waves crash into the beach. I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of asking why she wanted me to listen in on her conversation. We haven't faced each other since the awkward way we ended things last night. Which is fine—employers aren't supposed to hang out with the help.

But now Lisa sits in her chair like the lord of the manor, her gaze boring into me so hard it prods at my breastbone like a pesky finger, daring me to look back at her. I don't give in to the urge.

She finishes her drink before speaking. "You put something different in this."

"It's arsenic. I'd have gone the powdered-cookie route, but you're on a diet."

Amusement gleams darkly in her eyes.

"That mouth." From under the fringe of her lashes, she assesses me, the tip of her long finger idly stroking her lower lip. "I'd thought my memory exaggerated the sass that mouth is capable of. Clearly not."

Irritation catches at the back of my throat. "My memory is crystal clear, Con Man. Don't pretend as though you weren't every bit as bad."

We glare at each other from opposite sides of her desk while visions of me dumping the green smoothie on her lap dance through my head. Those severe brows of her lower, and I wonder if she knows exactly what I'm thinking.

Her voice is a soft thread cutting through the silence. "I remember everything, Jennie."

Maybe she intends that to be a threat—a promise, perhaps, that one day there will be a reckoning—but it sounds like something else, almost as if she's kept those memories close all this time, pulling them out every now and then to examine them like some sort of kitsch bauble you keep for nostalgia.

Without waiting for a reply, she sets a new phone on the desk. "Yours." She pushes it toward me. "My calendar and list of contacts are synced to it. All calls for me will go to you."

"All calls?"

"On that list, yeah." She nods to the phone, which I've left lying on the desk. "Only calls from you, Rosé, and North will ring to my phone."

I take the phone and scroll through the contacts. There are about forty names on it, both men and women. "Who are these people? Your friends?"

"Some of them. Mostly business contacts. Whenever a call comes in, take a message. I'll call them back if I want to."

"Every time? That sounds kind of cold."

"Why? Because I won't answer?" Her expression is somewhere between you poor deluded thing and aren't you precious? "No one is going to be offended. They're used to it."

"All right, then."

"Don't answer unknown calls. If a preprogrammed name pops up, it's okay. But no one else, Tot. Ever."

"Jesus, you make it sound like life and death," I say with a little laugh.

She doesn't blink. "I'm completely serious about this. The world is full of unhinged people. If one of them happens to get through, you'll only encourage them by answering." She rests her hands on the flat of her stomach. "Which brings me to another point. At the moment, no one knows who you are, but if, at any time, someone approaches you and asks about me, pretend you don't know what they're talking about, disengage, and call either me or North immediately."

My fingers curl around the hard edges of the phone. "Are you trying to scare me?"

"I'm trying to keep you safe. Promise me you'll listen, Jennie."

She's so intently serious that I can't find it in myself to tease, even though I want to. Because the whole thing makes me uncomfortable. I don't like the idea of having to watch my back. Some of this must show on my face because her tense shoulders relax, and her expression eases. "It's just safety protocol, Tot."

My back grows cold as if unseeing eyes are staring at me. I shake off the fanciful image; it will do me no good to become paranoid. "All right. I got it."

Satisfied, Lisa wheels away from the desk. "I've sent you a list of tasks for the week. Things may be added at will."

I find the email in question and read through it. Dry cleaning to be fetched, dress shoes and a couple of suits to be picked up from various shops on Rodeo Drive. She has a mountain of emails she wants me to answer, a calendar to reschedule, calls to return. I have a script I must follow when talking to people, nice little ways to evade giving away any solid details about Lisa's injuries. I'm also expected to purchase a long list of birthday presents for various people and see them personally delivered. None of these things can be purchased online—they're all from specialty stores around LA. Make that from all ends of LA.

"Seriously," I say when I'm finished.

The space between her brows wrinkles. "What's the problem, Tot?"

"I never knew you to be a shopper, Con Man. This reads like a list made by a diva."

She snorts. "You should be thankful I'm not a diva."

"And when am I going to find time to cook your meals?"

"You'll figure it out."

Tucking the phone away, I stand. "Is that all, ma'am? I've got a few menus to plan."

She grins wide. "Ma'am. I like that."

My finger is itching to flip up and say hello again.

She knows it. Her dark eyes gleam with anticipation. I won't give her the satisfaction, though. I turn to leave when she speaks up again.

"Oh, and I expect a snack at ten. Stop glaring, and get to work, slow coach."

Yep. Definitely in hell.

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