The Billionaire's Daughter

8 - Roman

"This is big money shit, ya'll. We succeed, we climb that ladder of success. Do we understand that?"

"Yes, chef," the group in front of her said in unison.

"I'm proud of you guys, forever and always. You know this," Renée smiled and clasped her hands, "Our guest is a singer, her parents are very rich and very privileged."

The group exchanged looks and words before Renée cut them off.

"I hate it, too, but this wasn't my request," Her sigh was heavy, making it obvious to me who really set this up for her, "Reminder: She's a pescatarian. You should've printed your dishes designed for her and her friends to prepare with your groups."

They now nodded and it was surprising to me how quickly they followed her orders.

"I'll come to check on you as you work," Renée smiled, "Get to it!"

"Yes, chef."

She turned to me, gesturing her head for me to follow her.

A small smile crept on my face as I did as she ordered. It was interesting to see her in this light.

She was commanding, yet respectful.

Everyone looked at her with a sort of admiration.

I wonder if I looked at her like that, too.

"Of all the jobs in the world, being a chef should've been obvious." I followed behind me as she went into a separate room, filled with ovens, pans, bowls. Basic baking material.

Not all basic, actually.

I wouldn't know how to work most of the shit in there.

"The way you were so precise about breakfast when I first saw you. That should've been the first sign." I laughed.

"I'm not all particular about what I cook," She put on the nearest apron, grabbing a spare one from the closet behind her, "I needed to kill time that day, so I killed it."

Renée put the second apron she held around my neck, looking up at me with a smile. I laughed at the sight of her on her toes, struggling slightly to reach around my neck, so I leaned forward to help her out.

I gave her a small look and she rolled her eyes, turning me around, "Shut up."

"I haven't said a thing." My laugh got cut short once I felt her tie the apron around my waist, "Damn, are you trying to kill me?"

"I would've done it already, Roman. Don't flatter yourself," Renée brought out a couple of limes, condensed milk, graham crackers, sugar, and eggs, "I still don't think you as my bodyguard serves a purpose, so I'm making you useful in the kitchen."

"I love when a woman takes charge," I winked, earning an eye roll from her, "But seriously, you're like the head chef around here."

"Somewhat," She tilted her head over by the sink for us to wash our hands, "We're a kitchen of color, we gotta build a safe, respectable community."

"So I'm the only pasty, white boy?" I joked, flicking the water from my hands in her direction.

"Yes, white boy. You are." She took a bowl and placed it in front of the small station with the graham crackers and sugar, "I need those pasty hands of yours to crush those crackers, then put them in the processor, then add sugar, process again."

"Yes, chef," I said with a smile.

I truly did enjoy her stern tone of authority. I never got to see this side of her and as bad as I am for thinking this, it was sexy.