Vikki

This is a nightmare. It has to be. I've already set the smoke alarms off twice and had to deal with an increasingly irate building manager. The kitchen might look state of the art, but I don't think it's been wired up correctly.

I can't properly work the appliances as there are no instructions anywhere, even online, because the makers are so exclusive, they don't need to put their information out so the worlds can see.

It further doesn't help I've been bombarded with text messages from someone calling themselves "Peter" and claiming to be Max's assistant. He's been wanting to arrange an evening at a very upmarket department store for my "fittings," and I've been wanting to tell him to take a running jump. Especially as I've ended up stuck in the dress from last night as, other than a pair of clean (and lacy) knickers, the silky night clothes were the only thing in Alyssia's Gladstone bag.

Plus, whilst I've attempted to tell my horrible landlord I've got a great paying job and I'll be able to clear my debts by the end of the month, with screenshots of my contract, his noncommittal responses have not filled me with hope I won't return to my house and find the locks changed.

Still, with half a million in my bank, I can afford to buy the place. I just can't afford to lose all the photos of my mum before she passed. My entire life, such as it is, is in my cottage.

I can cook. I've been able to cook since I was a student and didn't fancy existing on Pot Noodles and crisp sandwiches. I loved cooking for my housemates, and my Sunday dinner became somewhat legendary.

But cooking in this kitchen, for a billionaire leader of industry (yes, I googled Max the second he left the apartment), who's used to the good life and a confirmed bachelor (yes, I googled that too, so sue me)—this type of cooking is beyond me. Along with the nerves and the awful kitchen, I'm pretty certain he's going to sack me on the spot.

I look at the mangled mess on the counter and roll up my sleeves. If nothing else, maybe I can make it look pretty.

And make his smart kitchen look less like a disaster zone.

So finally, around 8pm, Max rolls in. He looks as fresh as he did this morning in his neat, handmade suit, shiny, shiny shoes, sparkling gold tie pin, watch, and watch chain. He sniffs the air.

"Something smells good."

How little he knows….

"Yeah." I don't want to offer an opinion. "If you want to…" I hesitate. I don't want to mention getting changed, that might seem forward. "It's ready when you are, just say and I'll serve."

Max takes off his suit jacket and casually flings it onto the back of the circular couch combo which curls around the large wood burning stove which sits in the one solid wall of this entire place. Above the fire is the most enormous oil painting of Max, dressed in his customary pinstripe and holding a cigar. His face has a slight sadness about it which almost makes having a fucking massive painting of yourself a reasonable thing to do, and not a huge over indulgence.

Almost.

I've done some exploring and so far, most of the doors have been locked, which has certainly piqued my interest and, as long as I still have a job, I'm going to ask for a tour.

"I'm ready now," Max says, strolling over to the dining table which I've done my best to make as inviting as possible with sparkling crystal glasses and, essentially, every item I could find to dress it in the kitchen and the rest of the living area. Including a massive vase I've filled with flowers, and I see Max wrinkling his nose at as he sits.

The dining area is almost as large as the rest of the living area, the table seating fourteen easily. It looks out over the city, which, as it's dark now, is a mass of twinkling lights and our reflections.

He looks at me with anticipation.

I am absolutely going to be sacked.

Carrying over a warmed plate, I put it down in front of him, doing my best not to notice his cologne. The scent of cigar smoke is a mere hint tonight, but the spicy citrus of Max is quite delicious.

Returning to the kitchen, I get out the various serving bowls and take them over, placing the steamed vegetables in front of him. I return to the oven and pull out what should have been the piéce de resistance. A beef fillet Wellington.

The sad looking burnt thing sitting in a pool of red on the platter sends my heart sinking.

I whip out a carving knife and slice through it. It's virtually raw in the middle and the pastry is as soggy as can be. I slide the slices onto a separate plate and carry them over, serving them with a flourish.

"And this is?" Max asks.

"Beef au Choux, done in the school of Graham style," I announce with a confidence I muster up from somewhere.

Max spoons some of the veg onto his plate and picks up his knife and fork.

"Are you not eating?" he asks.

Oh fuck.

"Yes," I say with forced brightness. "Of course. Let me get a plate."

I return to the table to find Max waiting for me, which means I have to serve myself as he watches.

"Oh! Wine," I exclaim, leaping up from the meal to scurry back to the kitchen, wishing he'd just get it over with.

The sacking that is.

I return with the bottle and he's chewing thoughtfully.

Oh, my god, he's eating it!

I pour us both large glasses of wine, and I take my seat opposite him, staring down at the food. I cut the smallest of morsels off and put it in my mouth.

It comes straight back out.

"Oh, Mr. Horenson…Max…" I blurt out. "I'm so sorry, this is awful. I can cook, honestly. But the kitchen is all new to me, and I couldn't get things to work and…" I grab my wine and very nearly down the entire glass until I feel a hand on mine.

Big trolls sure can move fast.

"Slower," he intones.

My insides turn to jelly. His hand is hot over mine and the onyx claws stand out against my skin.

"This is the worst meal I think I've ever had," he says.

I can't help it, my eyes fill with tears. Stupid tears because I've nothing to cry about.

"Anyone else would have got caterers in and passed the food off as their own," Max continues. "But you didn't. Why?"

I choke on a sob. It had simply never even occurred to me.

"I…I…" My voice is hoarse as I attempt to navigate the churn of emotions. "That would be dishonest. If I say I'm going to do something, I do it."

Max's bright eyes seem to pierce into my soul. I hold my breath, hating the hot tears on my cheeks. He throws his head back and laughs, a deep, rich sound which hits me in the stomach.

"You certainly did it," he says once he's finished, his eyes alighting on the table. "I mean, some of it was perfect."

"Except the food."

"Except the food," he says, his huge hand encircling my wrist. "But I appreciate the effort and your honesty. Why don't we order take out?"