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And I was okay with that.

The Party

In front of
Brit’s apartment building, the front desk guy—excuse me, concierge—appeared and helped me unload the van I’d rented for the occasion. “I’ll have everything sent up,” he said. “Here’s the key.” He handed me a gold card.

“Thank you.” Man, this was a swanky place.
It was like being in a hotel. Even the elevator was ritzy. Fitted with brushed steel panels and recessed soft lighting, it looked more expensive than my car.

When Sasha had told me that Brit was a trust-fund baby, I expected a certain amount of luxury, but this was beyond
what I’d imagined.

And o
f course it was the penthouse apartment. Anyone who thought that all Manhattan apartments were small and cramped had never set foot in a luxury penthouse on the Upper West Side.

On one side, t
he apartment overlooked Central Park and all its verdant beauty. The heat had singed many of the treetops and they looked like they had been lightly brushed with brown sugar. But it didn’t detract from the park’s lushness. I made a beeline for the French doors. I slid them open and stepped out onto the terrace. The hot air hit me like a brick in the face, but I stood there and stared at the sunken infinity pool. A sunken infinity pool! In Manhattan! The crystal-clear water sparkled in the sunshine as it stretched out for about ten feet, perpendicular to the apartment wall, until it reached the end of the terrace, then seemingly flowed right into the horizon, right through the bars of the fence. That was a bit of architectural hocus-pocus right there.

All around the pool were custom-upholstered lounge chairs
, clearly designed to match the fabric on the outdoor sofa and the curtains on the French doors. A wet bar along the wall looked well stocked with top-of-the-line booze, and I was pretty sure none of it was watered down. Next to it was a Jacuzzi, and the whole terrace was enclosed by a wrought iron fence, its poles thin and spaced out far enough so that it obstructed the view of Manhattan as little as possible.

I took a quick stroll around the perimeter, avoiding the bistro tables, and was awed by what was
definitely the biggest Manhattan terrace I’d ever been on. Turning the corner, I was stunned by a spectacular view of the Hudson River.

The
terrace’s splendor was surpassed only by the luxury of the apartment itself. The private elevator opened up into a gallery, which led into a gigantic living room. On the left side of the living room were other rooms. On the right was a sliding wall that opened to a chef’s kitchen. But not just any kitchen. A state-of-the-art kitchen that looked freshly installed. It included a new six-burner Viking stove, a Sub-Zero stainless steel refrigerator, and, yes, a huge-ass Sub-Zero wine fridge. Quite well stocked, too. I peeked in and saw labels that I’d thought existed only in oenophile fairy tales.

The sliding
wall was an interesting feature. Why would someone want that? My guess was that they liked to show off culinary performances. Put on by other people, not them. There was a flat-screen TV set up above the island. The kitchen was fitted with black cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and more space than my entire apartment.

Holy fucking shit
. To say that this was the nicest kitchen I’d ever seen in my life was putting it mildly. And it posed a small problem for me.

I was afraid to cook in it.

I approached the kitchen cautiously, as if it were breakable. I glanced at the distressed leather stools neatly arranged around the black and gray granite island and wondered if anyone ever ate at it. My guess was that they just sat and sipped wine. The chic track lighting overhead was on a medium setting and gave off a soft glow. The stainless steel refrigerator was enormous and, not surprisingly, when I opened it, quite bare, save for a bottle of ketchup, a jar of mustard, a couple of open bottles of wine—one white, one red—and a Big Gulp cup. In the wide cheese drawer, I found a half-eaten wheel of Camembert, a small tub of caviar, and a container of green cured olives. So much for Brit making use of her newly learned skills.

Against one of the walls, ten boxes of Veuve Clicquot
Champagne were stacked and waiting for my use. I could only imagine how much those cost.

The elevator doors slid open and two guys came in with my crates and deposited them by the island. I thanked them
but fought the urge to tip them. In a ritzy place like this, the tenants took care of the building workers and tipping was not expected of me. Instead, I set to work on unpacking.

With the perishables stowed in the refrigerator, I turned my attention to the other ingredients, arranging everything where I would need
it, either on the counter or by the stove. The cookware was of the highest quality, gleaming with newness, and I almost hated dirtying it up, but I took the pieces that I needed and placed them on the immaculate stove. Of course it was immaculate—it had obviously never been used. I opened up my kit, unsheathed my chef knife, and honed it.

A man who looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties was arranging expensive-looking flowers in a vase. I recognized calla lilies and birds-of-paradise. The rest were stunning, and probably
excessively expensive.

I took him to be the decorator, and he had pretty much been ignoring me. He was moving a vase to a different table when he caught me watching him.

“Hey, what’s up?” he finally said.

“Hi. Nice job with the decorations,” I replied, looking back down at my knife, embarrassed that he’d caught me.

He raised both eyebrows. “Thanks. You one of Brit’s girls?”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh. Never mind.” He continued futzing with his flowers.

I wiped the blade of my knife with a hand towel and returned the honing rod to its place in my kit. I
put the knife down and casually sauntered over to the decorator.

“I’m Giovanna. Jo,” I said, sticking out my hand.

“Nice name. Michael.” He took my hand and shook it briefly, quickly returning to his task.

“Um, what did you mean by ‘Brit’s girls?’”

He grinned wickedly even as he continued with his flowers. “Oops, did I just let the cat out of the bag? Did I just burst your bubble about true love, or of finding a sugar mama? I’m so sorry.”

He wasn’t really sorry. The only person I’d heard
who was more sarcastic than this guy was me.

“What?”

“Listen, everyone falls in love with Brit. You can hardly blame them. She’s gorgeous. And she’s a charmer.” He gave me a knowing wink. Unfortunately, I was not in the know.

“I think you have the wrong idea. I’m just here to cook for the party.”

Michael looked at me out of the corner of his eye and smirked. “Yeah. Right.”

His
snarkiness made me want to pluck one of those calla lilies and shove it up his ass. How dare he assume anything about me?

But I shrugged disinterestedly and
went back to the kitchen. The bag of flour made a dull thud as I dropped it on the counter. Michael came around the bend, a vase of brilliant purple blossoms in hand. I really wasn’t interested in anymore of his innuendos. “Look, I’m sure you see lots of
girls
around here, but I’m not one of them. I’m a professional chef and this is a professional job,” I stated bluntly, then turned around to set up a workstation next to the stove.

“Sure,” he said. “Whatever.”

I decided to ignore him and dampened a towel, flattened it on the counter, and placed a cutting board on top of it. I knew the cutting board was made of larch wood and handcrafted in Nova Scotia because I’d seen one just like it in a cookware store once and almost fell over when I saw the price tag. Never thought I’d actually ever work on one. Only the best for rich people—even if it never gets used.

Behind me, the rustling of flowers and leaves had stopped and I could almost feel Michael’s eyes boring into the back of my head. Well, he could stare all he
wanted. I had work to do and I assumed that once his flowers were all arranged, he’d take off. Fuck him.

I had lost myself in the task of chopping onions and was mentally ticking off the things I needed to do next, when Michael’s voice brought me out of my head.

“Brit doesn’t do anything without a reason.”

I turned around, knife point up. “Excuse me?”

“Brit always has a reason for everything she does.”

“What are you saying?”

“What I’m saying is, don’t be surprised if you end up between Brit’s sheets.”

It’s not as if I hadn’t thought about being in Brit’s sheets—or at least just seeing Brit naked—but the suggestion—by a total stranger, no less—that Brit and I would actually have some sort of conjugal visit after the ball ended made my entire body flush and prickle
with humiliation. Like I was some kind of whore. Chef with Happy Ending. Thank God Julianna would be here with me.

It was suddenly so hot that my chef jacket became unbearable. I put down my knife and took the jacket off. With the back of my hand, I wiped sweat from my forehead, then moved to the sink
to wash up.

Michael laughed. What the hell was he laughing at? I turned to look at him again. He had gone into the dining room, on the other side of the kitchen, and was placing shiny glass orbs in a clear glass bowl on the Medieval-castle-length dining room table. Each one of those balls probably cost more than my monthly food bill.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, annoyed.

“I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you.” He said
when he returned to the kitchen. With one hand on the island, he lifted his eyebrows in bemusement. “It’s just that you came in here so innocent, thinking that all you’re here for is to cook.”

“But I am. You
see all this food?” I swept my hand in an arc from one side of the kitchen to the other. “This is going to get cooked. And it’s going to get served. Brit hired me because she thinks I’m good. Which I am.” I was starting to get insulted. The bird-of-paradise looked as if it would hurt more than the calla lily going up his ass.

“Oh, sure. I have no doubt that Brit hired you because you’re a good chef. I’m sure you are. Brit wouldn’t have it any other way.” He began walking back out to the living room, turning his head slightly so I could still hear him. “But if you think that the food is the only thing that’s going to get eaten tonight, you really are naïve.”

I stared after him, stunned at his audacity and at the thought that Brit had those designs on me. Sure, she had been flirting with me but the idea that she was plotting some kind of Showtime-style seduction seemed both absurd and, frankly, a little scary.

Brit was a beautiful woman
, to be sure, and any healthy, normal degenerate like me would find her attractive. The prospect of sleeping with her was not unappealing, and it’s not like she was some freaky dominatrix that I should avoid. At least, I didn’t think so. And even if she was, that’s not what was scaring me.

It was the thought of being with anyone after the mess I’d made with Brenda. Even Julianna. Starting a relationship was not the problem. Sustaining it was. It had been
close to two years and I still had not been able to imagine making anything work with a woman.

Until I met Julianna. But I hadn’t done anything with her yet, either. Desire
for Julianna and the fear that I would fuck it up were dueling inside me and I wasn’t sure which would win. I was really hoping it would be desire.

I peeked into the living room. With a giant spool of white lights in his hands, Michael walked over to the corner of the room closest to the kitchen, where a high step-stool had been placed. “Look,” he said, placing the spool down on the floor, “I’ve known Brit for a long time. She’s a good person. Got a good heart. Lord knows she was there for me every time I got my heart broken. You think women can be bitches? Well, let me tell you, boys can be ruthless. Especially
the pretty ones.” He seemed to go somewhere else for a moment as he gazed out the French doors. “But she likes her women. She likes to have a good time. She has no desire for anything long-term, if that scares you. If that’s what you
want
, then you’re out of luck.”

He opened up a plastic box and pulled out a couple of removable hooks,
and climbed the step-stool. Once at the top, he pulled the tab off the back of a hook and stuck the hook on the wall, high up in the corner. He climbed back down and began unspooling the lights. “Either way, she usually gets what she wants.” Standing up straight for a moment, he said, pensively, “I don’t think anyone’s ever complained.” A conspiratorial laugh made his voice lower an octave. He laughed again. “From what I hear, she shows her
guests
a good time. So just enjoy yourself.”

The elevator doors slid open again. Still a bit astonished at Michael’s suggestion that I was there as a concubine—a cooking concubine
—I looked up to see who was entering.

Julianna stepped into the apartment and came into the kitchen.

“Oh,” she said, looking me up and down. “That’s hot.”

I looked down at myself. “What?”