The Last Eligible Billionaire(62)

“The housekeeper will take care of it.”

I give my dog the stink-eye.

He gives it right back. I think he’ll miss Hayes too.

“C’mon, Marshmallow. Time to return your booty.”

We head to the kitchen, which is easy to find—you just follow the trail of salt—and when I get there, I’m hesitant to walk in.

It’s massive. And fancy. The kitchen has an arched ceiling. At least two ovens. Three sinks. A backsplash that was probably hand-painted by one of the Italian greats who was re-animated with some of the Rutherford fortune. Money can buy anything, right?

It takes me a minute to spot the refrigerator because the facing blends in with the cabinets. The island is the size of a continent. The kitchen itself is larger than my entire apartment. And the chef is slicing and dicing things on a cutting board and doesn’t look happy at the interruption.

You only live once though, right?

“Hi.” I smile and wave like we’re not standing ten feet apart. Actually, it might be twenty. This is a massive kitchen. “I’m Begonia. Hayes’s, um, girlfriend. Did you make that amazing picanha last night? And oh my god, the cheese rolls?”

She snorts. “Child’s play,” she says in a thick French accent.

“They were my first, and they were amazing.” I smile again, which makes my temple throb.

She doesn’t.

Maybe her temple’s throbbing too.

“I accidentally knocked a candle over and set off the smoke alarms and the in-room sprinklers last night, stood outside in my robe with the entire Rutherford clan while the fire department came, and then my ex-husband called and was on speakerphone when he said Hayes is playing with me and I only get one more chance to take him back. I drowned the complications in a bottle of wine, and I feel basically like ass this morning, and I need to clean up this salt that my dog spilled all over the first floor here. Do you have a favorite hangover cure before I go find the vacuum and make my head split in two with the noise? Because otherwise I’m going to find someone to take me to the nearest McDonald’s, and that seems like one more thing that I might do wrong, and I’m trying very hard to not do things wrong today, and I miss my sister, and I wish my ex-husband had this headache instead of me, but he doesn’t, at least as far as I’m aware, so I’m just doing the best I can here.”

She finishes with six carrots, sets her knife down, and gives me a look that would probably put Giovanna Rutherford herself in her place. “Why did you divorce him?”

“His mother said some not-nice things about me and he didn’t defend me.”

“Men have no honor. Too afraid of their mothers.” She snorts, and I swear she’s snorting in a French accent too. Then she points to the other side of her work island, where six stools are lined beneath the countertop. “Sit. I will make you cassoulet, if you don’t expire first.”

“Hayes defended me to his mother,” I whisper.

“Wise man. I will not put too much chili powder in his croissants.”

“He likes chili powder in his croissants?”

“No. No one likes chili powder in croissants.” She smiles. Not gonna lie—I’m fairly certain it’s a smile meant to terrify.

“Do you like your job here?”

“Best job. Mr. Rutherford—he’s a good boss.” She winks. “And absent so much. I watch home improvement shows on the TV in his office when he is gone. You like coffee?”

“Oh, yes, I adore coffee.”

She points to a large stainless steel machine on a counter along one stone wall. “You do your coffee. I will do your cassoulet.”

I almost tear up. “Thank you.”

“No coffee for the dog.”

I laugh, thoroughly enjoying the sound of her voice. It’s like taking a trip without having to go anywhere. “Agreed.”

“I will clean the salt. I gave it to him, I clean it. Good dog. Very funny. And his noise annoys Ms. Sussex-Williams.”

“You cheeky devil,” I whisper. “Can we be friends? What’s your name?”

“This is Fran?oise, Begonia,” Keisha says. Her hair is wild, like she had a very good night. She’s in a bright pink kimono, which is gaping open to her belly button and matches the silk pants that are threatening to fall off her tiny frame. She pauses halfway to the coffee maker and dusts off her bare feet with a frown. “Stay on her good side or she’ll put olives in your Frosted Flakes.”

“Or salt on your feet,” Fran?oise murmurs.

Keisha grins. “I’m gonna call Liliane and tell her Hayes thinks it’s sexy when women race barefoot through the front hall. And then I’m going to tell her it’s the latest craze—exfoliating your feet just by walking around your own house. What happened? The dog get into the salt?”

I nod.

“Wicked. He’s the coolest dog. Can I take him on tour?”

“No!”

She laughs. “Ah, man, you didn’t sleep well, did you? C’mon. I’ll fix your coffee. Fran?oise has your hangover cure coming, I see. Let’s go hide in the gazebo and you can tell me all of your secrets before Millie wakes up and realizes I’m wreaking havoc on the world.”

“But the salt—”

“B, the housekeeper vacuums here every day, whether Hayes is in residence or not, so don’t sweat it.”