He walks so stiffly. His shoulders are wide, terrifying, and he’s much more… intense than I expected. And tan. And those dark eyes; I swear he can see right through me.

As if he hears my thoughts, he spins to face me. “What’s your name, miss?”

“Cindy,” I say as I look around the kitchen he’d led me to with my mouth wide open. I can’t even hate him more for having servants.

A man in a chef’s jacket walks out into view and I see a smile cross his face. “Mr. Rossi!” The chef says and I realize I can’t hate him as he glances at me with a smile and a polite, “Miss.” He seems way too nice. Still, some part of me twists with jealousy. My dad would be great in a place like this.

I glance at Rossi, surprised he’s ignoring the person talking to him. “Don’t be rude,” I say before realizing who I’m talking to.

And judging by the way his eyebrows shoot up, he’s as surprised as I am.

But the chef bursts out in loud laughter and I shift uncomfortably, my cheeks blazing red hot. Rossi turns to face the chef who’s quick to tell him in a loud voice that he’s in trouble.

Rossi doesn’t seem amused. “Get home to the lady, Ben,” He growls at the man who nods and says a loud thanks in that signature voice. Ben is quick to leave and only when he’s gone does Rossi turn to me.

“I assume you know who I am,” he says, his voice suddenly chilly.

I nod as he walks into the kitchen and stands before a stainless steel, restaurant grade bit of equipment of some kind. Of course I know who he is. Why would I walk out in front of him to talk if I didn’t know him?

The thick scent of coffee fills the air and I walk up to sit at the bar that runs nearly the whole length of the front of the room. The whole place is light and white with the glint of stainless steel. Windows let in the brilliance of the snow and the brightening of the skies as everything goes a vibrant sunset orange.

“Are you hungry?” he asks and my stomach rumbles an answer for me. Without another word, he opens the oven and pulls forth an incredible meal with the awaiting potholders. My mouth fills and I swallow, thinking that whatever he made has got to be the most amazing thing I’ve never had.

He places the hot dish on the stovetop and pulls a couple plates from a nook I didn’t even know was a cabinet. The whole overhead storage area looks like a segmented, coldly artistic stretch of stainless steel that stands about ten inches from the wall. But he opens a segment of it like magic and pulls two simple, square white plates out and places them on the counter.

I watch him as he uses what seems like surgeon precision to place food on each plate. To the point where he carefully wipes up a smudge on one of the plates with a clean hand towel. He then brings them over and places one before me and one on the other side of the bar before he leaves once a gain and produces two cups much the way he did the plates.

I watch the grace and comfort of how he moves in the kitchen. He’s got a heavy grace, not like a dancer, no, more like a boxer. Heavy on his feet, yet quick and agile. He’s moves like someone more at home in the kitchen than anywhere else.

It’s interesting to watch.

When he turns, I quickly look down at the plate he’d put before me. There are little potatoes; red, purple, white, it’s beautiful with the little carrots, celery and what looks like onion as well as a few other things I can’t quite place. Beside the veggies is some kind of meat that is falling apart before my eyes. Something that reminds me of roast, but unlike any cut of meat I’ve ever gotten to enjoy. And to the side, a delicate fruit that looks like half a pear filled with some kind of cream and topped with a sweet jam of sorts. It’s beautiful and smells amazing.

Glancing up at Rossi again, I see he’s placing a steaming cup of coffee before me and one before himself. Alongside the coffee is a beautifully wrapped set of utensils. I feel bad, almost, unwrapping the napkin to get at the silverware as he takes his.

Following his motions, I run what I’m going to say through my mind really quick. I want it all ready to go when we finally decide to speak.

As if reading my mind, he says, “First we eat, then we talk business.” There’s a gruff edge to his tone and I nod, wondering if he’s always been this short. Then again, maybe he’s just judging me like I have been judging him this whole time.

We begin to eat and I feel like melting into my plate. The food is simply amazing, bursting with flavors that range from savory to spicy before coming back to this savory sensation that’s exactly what my stomach has been craving for… well… forever.

I’ve never eaten like this.

Struggling to keep my manners, I eat as slowly as I can manage. I’m sure to him I look like a damned monster, but it’s a compliment, really, to this amazing food. I glance up at him, my heart pounding with humiliation.

He meets my gaze, totally steadfast as he takes a drink of his coffee.

That’s right, there’s coffee!

I pick mine up, forcing my hands to be calm and slow. Taking a drink of it, I close my eyes and groan a sound of pure pleasure. It’s perfect. Creamy and slightly sweet, nutty and rich.

“This is so good,” I say, opening my eyes to look at him again.

He gives me a tight smile as he places his cup back on the glossy countertop. Everything is just so pretty and clean I feel out of place. My countertops at home look dingy no matter how hard or much I scrub. They’re not really dirty; just old and worn out with a perpetual dirty look.

I rub the last bite of potato on my plate in the juices of the meat and pop it in my mouth with a shiver of pleasure. Every bit of me is sad it’s gone. I could eat that until I popped. The pear is next. I cut a delicate sliver of it and the cream slowly melts into the space like melted ice cream. Taking a bite, I savor the delicately sweet flavors with the slightly tart bite of the sauce on top.

It’s fucking brilliant; not too sweet, not too tart.

I dig in and it’s gone all too soon. When the last bit of cream is gone, I dab the corners of my lips with my napkin, aware again that I must seem like a beast slobbering before Rossi.

Cringing, I meet his gaze. There’s something hard behind his dark eyes and I feel my back snap straight.

You know what? Fuck him. He’s got money, but he’s not better than I am.