His Private Chef

I was getting ready for my new summer job–a job that, technically, wasn’t even mine to begin with. My mom had signed the six-week contract. I was just stepping in for her. After a grueling junior year, I’d come home to spend my final college summer with her before senior year kicked off. Graduation was finally within reach, and I could already taste that culinary arts degree. Cooking has always been my first love. A passion passed down from my mother, the renowned chef in Los Angeles. My dad died when I was four. Since then, it’s just been the two of us. She’s my everything. So when I got home and saw how pale she looked, there was no way I was letting her take on a demanding summer gig, no matter how important the client was. She tried to fight me for it. “I have already signed the contract,” she said gently. But I was firm. Her health mattered more than any job. And honestly, you didn’t need to be a doctor to see how unwell she looked. “It’s the Black family, Emily. You know how powerful they are,” she pleaded. “Let me do this. I’ll rest afterward, I promise.” As touching as her plea was, I didn’t budge. I offered to fill in. I’d grown up helping her in the kitchen, at weddings, parties, high-profile galas. I could handle this. She needed rest. Full stop. So I booked her a ticket to Houston to recover at Aunt Nancy’s. Far away from the temptation of lace tablecloths and flaming sauté pans. I may or may not have threatened never to come home again if she refused. The roles had reversed. I was parenting her now. She left yesterday evening, and the house has been very quiet ever since. This morning, I pulled my long black hair into a sleek ponytail and tucked a crisp white blouse into tailored black pants. Professional. Simple. Ready. I gave myself a nod in the mirror, grabbed my keys, and headed out. The address led me into one of those neighborhoods where the air itself felt more expensive. Wide, tree-lined streets. Manicured lawns. Discreet but overwhelming displays of wealth. I wasn’t surprised. This was the Black family, after all. Titans in real estate, tech, hospitality–basically, if it exists, they own a piece of it. Their last name opens doors in this city. At the gate, I showed my pass and was waved through. The driveway was long and winding, lined with towering palms and hedges too perfect to be real. Holy hell. The house loomed into view. Or should I say, mansion. No, scratch that–palace. I muttered under my breath, “This money we’re working for... Some people really have too much of it.” I parked beside a fleet of luxury cars that made my little hatchback look like an embarrassed stepchild. The garage alone was bigger than most restaurants I’d worked in. Taking a deep breath, I stepped out. The lawn was a rolling sea of green. A massive fountain gurgled in the center. And the garden? Straight out of a royal botanical catalog. I rang the bell. A man in his fifties opened the door. Polished, crisp, efficient. The kind of guy who knew how to keep secrets. “Hello,” I said. “I’m Emily. The new chef.” He gave a brief nod. “Come in. Mr. Liam will be down shortly. You can wait in the kitchen.” I followed him through a foyer that belonged in Versailles. This place was no ordinary home, it was a museum of taste and luxury. The ceilings soared, chandeliers gleamed, and the air felt expensive. Every furnishing whispered old money with a modern edge. The kitchen? Pinterest on steroids. Top-tier appliances. Marble counters. A massive island that begged to be filled with pastries and wine. I could practically hear the dough rising. I was still mentally decorating the space when a voice interrupted the silence. “Well, who do we have here?” I turned around, heart jumping. “Oh my God! You startled me!” Standing there–laid-back and grinning, was Jason Black. Yes, that Jason Black. The Grammy-winning singer. Global heartthrob. Billboard royal. He wore a gray tracksuit like it was a runway piece, his brown hair slightly tousled, and those warm brown eyes? Yeah. Dangerous. “You look even better in real life,” I blurted out, then instantly regretted it. He laughed, deep and genuine. “It hits different when a beautiful woman compliments you.” I looked down, trying to hide my burning cheeks. Jason walked over to the fridge, grabbed a water bottle, and took a seat at the island like we were old friends. I joined him. “So,” he said, cracking the cap, “what brings you to our lair?” “Work. I’m the new chef.” He tilted his head. “You look young.” “I’m filling in for my mom. She’s sick. But I promise, I know my stuff. I’ve been in kitchens longer than I’ve been in high school classrooms.” His expression softened. “Sorry to hear that. Hope she gets better soon.” “Thanks.” “You’re pretty chill,” I said with a smile. “Not what I expected from a global popstar.” He smirked. “And you’re cooler than most people who’ve walked into this kitchen. What’s your name?” “Emily.” “Well, Emily,” he said, “you’re cool. But you know who’s not?” I blinked. “Who?” “My brother. Liam. Your new boss.” I raised a brow. “He’s... intense. Just a heads-up, don’t take everything he says personally. That’s just how he is.” The way he said it, it wasn’t a joke. It was a warning. “Duly noted.” We drifted into a casual conversation about music. I asked him about the story behind one of his songs: To All the Memories. He was mid-sentence when I heard footsteps approaching. Jason looked up. “Speak of the devil.” I turned, and froze. There he was. Liam Black. And oh my God. He looked like a walking GQ spread. Tall. Broad shoulders. Wearing a black three-piece Armani suit like it was stitched onto him. His jawline was sharp enough to cut through glass. Deep brown eyes, shiny back hair with a few artful curls left loose. And the scent that drifted over–cool, woodsy, sophisticated. I didn’t know whether to curtsy or faint. Without sparing either of us a word, he strode in, grabbed a bottle of water, and drank half of it in one long, confident gulp. “Rude,” I whispered to Jason. Jason fought a grin. “Good morning, dear brother,” he said. “Your chef is here.” Liam finally turned to face us. His eyes landed on Jason first. “Jay.” Then he looked at me. And held that look. Not a word. Just stared. His gaze was unreadable. Sharp. Measuring. As if he were trying to decide what category to place me in, nuisance or necessity. I couldn’t tell if he disapproved of me… or was simply intrigued. But I knew one thing for certain. This summer just took a turn. And it had everything to do with Liam Black.