Chapter 19

I wrap myself in the fluffy, white robe and tie the belt. I check my phone and groan when I see it's almost ten. I've only got an hour to get ready and get to the office to meet Alistair.

A delicious smell has me wandering from the bedroom to the kitchen where I find a big, beer-bellied man in a chef's uniform — including the hat — humming along to classical music playing in the background.

"Um, hello?" I say, feeling a little awkward as I linger.

He turns to look at me, a big smile on his rosy cheeks. "Well, hello there. You must be Alistair's friend."

Oh dear God, what has he said about me?

I nod like a dummy. "I'm Charlize."

He wipes his hands on the front of his apron and holds his hand out to shake mine. "I'm Dominic, but you can call me Dom."

"Wow so Alistair really does have a personal chef? I thought he was just blowing his own horn."

Dom looks at me startled, then lets out a big belly laugh. "Oh, I like you, Charlize. I can tell we're going to get along famously."

Pity I'm only here for today. "What's that delicious smell?" I walk toward the kettle and flick it on.

"That, my dear, is my world famous cottage pie."

"Why is it famous?"

He stops in his tracks. "Because I made it for the Queen and she loved it."

My eyes go round. "Wow, you did?"

"At Buckingham Palace one time. I cooked for the entire Royal Family. It was the highlight of my career."

"So now you work for Alistair?"

"Between us, Mr. Devereaux pays better." He gives me a wink and I laugh. "Now, young lady. What can I get you to eat? I made Mr. Devereaux a Spanish omelette this morning, but I can do anything you want. I have eggs, smoked salmon, trout…"

"Oh God, trout? Do people really eat that for breakfast?"

"Not as much as they eat mackerel."

"Holy cow. Rich people are so weird."

He chuckles. "Yes, they are. And I can tell you; the richer they are, the weirder it gets."

I smile. "An omelette sounds great, thanks Dom." I'm not used to anyone making my food. He seems delighted to feed me though.

I set about making myself a cup of tea as he moves around the kitchen with ease.

"So, you've been doing this a while, then?"

"Since I was fourteen."

"Holy shit."

He shrugs. "My grandma taught me how to cook. We didn't have much, so I got really good at finding creative ways to use potatoes for example because they were cheap."

"I wish I could cook," I grumble.

He chuckles again. "It's not that hard. People overthink it. I've worked in five-star hotels with fifteen chefs under my belt, and I can tell you, I'd much prefer to cook for one or two people and make the food to their liking."

"Like Mr. D?"

He smiles. "Yes, like Mr. D."

I pour my tea, and take the milk out of the fridge. "You don't find him a little surly?"

"Absolutely. But that's all part of the fun."

I giggle. "I don't see how dealing with him could be fun, but I'll take your word on it."

He starts cracking eggs, cutting up all kinds of vegetables as he throws it all into a large mixing bowl. There's not a mark or splash on his apron — I'm secretly impressed.

"Trust me, I've had worse clients. Mr. Devereaux is a pussy cat compared to some."

"Who was your worst client ever?" I settle in for the gossip as I watch Dom work.

"Unfortunately, I signed a lot of NDAs in my time," he sighs. "But one I didn't get to sign — because the douchebag never paid up — was Jacob Steel."

My eyes go wide. "No way?" Jacob Steel is a famous actor in the UK and rumour has it he might even be the new Superman. Personally, I don't think he's a patch on Henry Cavill, but that's just me.

"Complete waste of space. A real diva, and I've met some divas in my time. I mean, how much could you know at twenty-one years old?"

I laugh. "It's always the pretty boys who cause the biggest headaches."

"Touché."

He flips over my omelette onto a plate in no time, and when I'm tucking in, I'm certain it's the best omelette I've ever had.

"Mr. Devereaux only likes the freshest, organic ingredients," he says. "Thanks to him I now have an allotment where I grow my own vegetables."

"That's amazing. I'd love to grow my own stuff. Unfortunately, I can't even keep a houseplant alive."

He chuckles, continuing to chop onions faster than a runaway freight train. I wish I had a skill like that; where I could use my hands. I can't type very well, and I definitely can't paint. I don't think polishing glasses and pouring pints is a skill exactly, but I now have to construct an email to my boss to let him know the sad news.

When my phone pings as I'm eating, I smile when I see it's Neve. I texted her yesterday. She was going to the country for the weekend with the guy from the party. For some reason, I get the impression that she likes him a lot more than a friend.

I haven't told her any details about Alistair. Just that it went well and he wants to see me again.

Neve

Just checking in to see how my favourite bar tender is doing?

I can't tell her I went to his place. Technically, I'm still an employee of élégance and that's against the rules. I guess I'll have to let Daphne know that it just didn't work out.

Me

I'm fine. How was your weekend?

Neve

Never better. We went horse riding.

Me

Swoon. That guy's really into you

Neve

LOL what about you? Will you see Birthday Boy again?

Me

I think so. Just not in the way you think. I don't know if this is for me though — it's complicated

Neve

Take all the time you need. It's a lot, especially when you're new. If you want to talk, I'm all ears.

I smile.

Me

Thanks. Appreciate that. Maybe we can have lunch this week and you can tell me all about that dashing man of yours

Neve

Sounds perfect!

I realise I should also message Ariana and Imogen. It's been a few days. I also haven't told them anything about me working as an escort. Neither of my friends are judgy, but that's still a lot to unpack. Telling them about Alistair is even worse, but I know I'll have to confess. We don't have any secrets. I may have been coy about how hard things have been in London financially, but they'll see through it eventually.

"That was amazing," I say to Dom. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Mr. Devereaux left you a note. I'm afraid I had to move it in case I got food on it." He points to the table behind. "I left it over there."

"Oh," I say. "Thanks, Dom." I get up to retrieve it and notice his neat, scripted handwriting. How the hell did he learn to write so elegantly?

I smile when I get to the end. My butt is actually feeling fine this morning.

I wander over to the living room where I see a single rail of clothes hung on clear hangers. There are several shoe boxes stacked up and I gape when I see a Louis Vuitton shopping bag along with several others of varying designers.

What in the world?

I finger through the clothing. They're all designer labels — of course — and I gape at the price tags. One Gucci blouse is over six hundred pounds.

Of course, every single item is in my size, even the shoes.

There are three pairs of jeans, a few pairs of pants and skirts — no leggings in sight. Blouses, t-shirts, jackets and belts. Clearly, Alistair expects me to wear this stuff, and since I agreed to be his sugar baby — in his eyes, happy to spend his money — I need to stop gawking and grab something to wear. It's ten thirty already.

I swipe a pair of navy pants, the white frilly blouse and a pair of dark blue pumps. Fuck knows how I'm going to walk in those, but whatever. I peer into the shopping bags and squeal when I pull out a Louis Vuitton Neverfull. There's also a black cross body bag from Gucci, a cream shoulder bag from Prada and two Versace belts.

I've never seen extravagance like this, but then again, he didn't correct me last night when I accidentally called him a sugar daddy.

I tell myself he wants me to spend his money. He wants me to wear this stuff because I'm important to him — not because I'm being paid. It is a pleasant fiction and as I scoop the Louis Vuitton into my arms, I know today is going to be a good day, and I've only got half an hour to make myself presentable.

I wait outside Alistair's office, wondering what's taking so long. I've been here for twenty minutes now and as great as all this is, I'm not the most patient person in the world.

The building — like all things Alistair — is incredible. I've never seen so many shiny buttons on an elevator before. Of course, Alistair's offices are on the very top floor. Would we expect anything less?

When I'm finally led to his office by an attractive receptionist, he's on his phone. He gestures for me to come in. I do so and close the door behind me.

I study him in his surroundings and try not to get swept up in all of this.

He's every inch the CEO in his grey suit, white shirt and matching satin tie. The things I'd love for him to do to me with that tie…

He looks handsome. His hair is carefully styled. He has manscaped his face, but his beard remains. I press my legs together when I remember how his scruff felt when his head was between my legs.

His desk is large — as you'd expect. He also has papers all over it, along with a computer, his telephone and a coffee cup. He also looks like he's having an argument with someone; I can tell by the look on his face and the way he taps his pen against the desk rapidly.

Then he speaks. "That just isn't good enough. If they think they can undercut this firm to try and snatch the client for themselves, then they've been smoking crack for way too long."

My eyebrows shoot up as I keep listening.

"… No, not tomorrow. Today, arsehole. You knew the stakes were high on this job and yet I have to find out second-hand information from some snitch over at Prime Media. Jeremy Fucking Fuller will be gloating about this for days. Just remember, it's your arse on the line when we lose this client." He slams the phone down and lets out a string of cuss words as I sit there in silence. Turning his head, he scans my body.

"Hello," I say. "I'm Charlize, your new sugar baby. Is there anything I can get for you? Tea? Coffee? Bourbon? Blowjob?"

He gives me a disapproving look and runs both hands through his hair. Okay, bad timing for a joke. "You look pretty."

Just those words. His tone is light and more playful than I've heard before.

I feel my cheeks flushing. I dry shampooed the shit out of my hair because I didn't get time to wash it, and I applied a decent amount of makeup.

"Thank you for the clothes."

"Did you like them?"

I shrug. "They were nice."

"Don't sound too enthusiastic."

"I just mean, they were all… pretty formal."

He piques an eyebrow. "Whenever you come to my office, you have to look like a lady, Charlize. And when we're out together. When we're at home, you can wear what you like."

When we're at home?

I feel a flutter in my stomach. It feels a lot like butterflies.

"Do I look like a lady now?"

His eyes scan my face. His lips turn up, almost a smile but not quite. "Yes."

"I love the blouse, but six hundred pounds? You're insane."

His lips twitch. "It's just money. Speaking of which…" He leans down and pulls something out of his top drawer. Sliding it across the desk I see it's a credit card.

"This is for you."

I stare at it. "My own credit card?"

"Yes."

"What's the spending limit?"

He rests his elbows on the table and I try not to stare at his bulging biceps. "There isn't one."

Holy shit.

"So, just to clarify. You don't care what I spend?"

"No. I don't. In fact, if you don't spend any money, I'll be sorely disappointed. And you don't want to see me disappointed, do you Charlize?"

I lean over and take the card. "No, Mr. Devereaux."

He shakes his head at my insolent tone.

Dear God, this man may just be the death of me.

"You know every time you open that pretty mouth and something sarcastic comes out, I'm counting."

I press my legs together. Oh, yes, Daddy.

"Is that right?"

"Yes. And rest assured, I'm very much into public displays of affection where your arse is concerned."

"Glad to hear it." My heart beats so rapidly in my chest, I'm afraid I might combust. "I kind of gathered that last night in the car."

"That was me in a good mood. Now, tell me what you have planned for today."

Uh, oh. What?

I rack my brain. I don't think he's asked me to do anything, but as I see the displeased look on his face, I think back to what might make him happy. The one thing that he's insisted that I do. My eyes meet his and then I smile. "I'm going to go and burn a hole in your credit card, Daddy."

It takes a few moments, but the smile slowly spreads across his face. "That's my good girl."