AFTER LEAVING CHELSEY, I walked downstairs to the kitchen and started snooping around for something to eat.
“Can I help you?” asked a plump man in a white uniform.
“Oh, you’re the personal chef, aren’t you?”
He smiled. “Yes. My name is Christopher. Are you hungry?”
“Oh my God, yes. I’m starving. I was just going to look for something quick, though. Do you have any yogurt or oatmeal?”
“I can do better than that. Why don’t I make you an omelet or some French toast?”
“Oh, an omelet sounds great,” I replied. “Could you make two of them? My cousin should be down in a little while.”
“It would be my pleasure. What would you like in your omelet?”
“Whatever you want to put in it.”
“Ham, spinach, and onion?”
“My stomach is already growling,” I replied, smiling. “Neither of us are fussy, so
