His Private Chef

Chapter 4: Mason

At exactly 9:00 a.m., my phone buzzed.

Jay: Outside. Come out, Vixen.

I’d been up since six, too wired to sleep. I practically flew to the door, nerves and excitement tangling in my chest.

Outside, a sleek black Range Rover was parked at the curb. Jay rolled down the window and flashed a grin.

“Hop in,” he said.

He looked irritatingly fresh and cheerful. Definitely a morning person. I slid into the passenger seat and greeted him and the driver–who, honestly, looked more like a bodyguard. Black suit. Dark shades. A visible black-ink tattoo trailing down his neck.

He gave me a silent nod and pulled into the street.

The car moved smoothly, but my thoughts were racing. My legs bounced with anticipation. Today felt like Christmas came early.

Jay chuckled. “You’re awfully giddy for someone who needed bribery to show up.”

I rolled my eyes. “Shut up before I change my mind.”

“Please,” he smirked. “We both know you wouldn’t dare.”

Unfortunately, he was right. If he bailed on me now, I’d genuinely cry. Not that I’d ever admit that to him, he’d never let it go.

The studio wasn’t far. We arrived within twenty minutes, and Jay led the way inside like he owned the place. Which, honestly, he probably did.

The space smelled like leather, wood polish, and creative energy.

Recording equipment filled the room–microphones, interfaces, cables, studio monitors. I recognized some of it from my tech elective in school. The rest? Total mystery.

“This is where the magic happens,” Jay said, sweeping his arms dramatically.

I smiled as he introduced me to the crew. As his friend. That single word warmed something in my chest.

Then he disappeared into the booth, headphones on, totally in his element. I settled into a plush chair in the waiting area and started scrolling through my phone.

And then, someone sat beside me.

I looked up.

And forgot how to breathe.

Mason Jacob.

The Grammy-winning, chart-topping, sinfully attractive Mason Jacob.

I’d had a crush on him for years.

Was I dreaming?

I discreetly pinched my arm.

“Ow.”

He laughed. “Careful now. You’re not hallucinating.”

I blinked. “Wait…was that an accent?”

He smiled, amused. “Yup. Grew up in London. Moved back here at nineteen. It slips out now and then.”

God. His voice was silk.

I groaned into my hands. “Did I just say that out loud?”

“You did. And it was adorable.” He leaned back, lazy and confident. “I’m Mason, by the way.”

“As if I didn’t know,” I muttered, mortified. “Emily.”

“Emily,” he repeated, like he was tasting it. “Pretty name for a beautiful girl.”

I blushed.

He glanced around. “So, what brings you to the studio?”

“I’m here with Jay,” I said. “More like… he bribed me.”

His brow lifted. “Jason Black?”

I nodded. “The one and only.”

He laughed. “That checks out. He’s known for making tough deals.”

“You’re telling me,” I said, snorting.

Then, casually, he asked, “Are you his girlfriend?”

My eyes widened. “God, no. We’re just friends.”

Friend sounded a lot better than the girl who works for his emotionally unavailable brother.

“Hmm,” he said, those hazel eyes lingering a second too long. “Got it.”

I was dying to ask why he was here, but I didn’t want to cross a line. My face must’ve given me away.

“I’m meeting Jay,” he said, answering the question I didn’t ask. “We’re finalizing tour details.”

I sat up straighter. “That’s so cool.”

Then he looked me dead in the eye. “Want to come?”

I blinked. “Wait. Come… with you?”

“On tour,” he said, lips twitching. “What’d you think I meant?”

I coughed. “Right. Of course. I just… um, wow. Yes. Hell yes.”

He laughed. “Noted. I’ll talk to Jay and get your number before I leave.”

He strolled off like he hadn’t just turned my morning upside down.

Still stunned, I texted Lisa:

Guess who I just met?

She was going to kill me for teasing her like this.

By 12:45, Jay reappeared, glowing with post-recording satisfaction. Mason trailed behind him.

“Emily,” Mason said, stopping in front of me. “Almost forgot.”

He handed me his phone. I entered my number and saved his.

“Bye, beautiful,” he said with a wink.

My face heated. He walked out, and I just sat there, stunned.

Jay leaned in, grinning like a lunatic. “Em Em... Emily?” He tapped my cheek. “I was so right about you.”

I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door. “Come on, Vixen. You’re in for a ride.”

Outside, the driver was already waiting. Jay gave him a quick nod and typed something into his phone.

I narrowed my eyes. “You’ve got a sparkle in your eye. What did you do?”

He just smiled like a devil in designer.

After a smooth thirty-five-minute drive, the car pulled up in front of Marco Russo’s restaurant.

Air stuck in my lungs.

Elegant. Breathtaking. Sophisticated. The air itself felt curated. Warm lighting. Private booths. Crystal glasses and silverware that probably cost more than my tuition.

It was a masterpiece.

Jay walked in with the confidence of someone who belonged. I trailed behind, jaw practically on the floor.

Then I saw him.

At a reserved table, suit jacket draped neatly over his chair, eyes locked on his phone–Liam Black.

My boss.

The human embodiment of brooding stares and bad moods.

I stopped cold.

Jay?

He was smiling like the smug traitor he was.

“You didn’t,” I hissed.

“Oh, but I did,” he whispered, nudging me forward.

I could’ve strangled him. Right there. In front of the maître d’.

But instead, I walked forward.

Straight into the lion’s den.

Let the drama begin.