Lila stood in Elliot Voss's penthouse kitchen, the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows, turning the marble counters into a canvas of gold.
The cherry-red mixer—Elliot's extravagant gift—sat proudly on the island, its presence both a thrill and a weight.
She'd spent the morning scouring her recipe notebook, prepping for the Culinary Institute's practical exam, now just five days away.
The task: create a signature dish that showcased her style. Simple, yet terrifying. Her future hinged on a single plate, and the pressure was a knot in her chest.
She'd asked Mrs. Delaney for permission to use the penthouse kitchen after her shift, expecting a polite no.
Instead, the housekeeper had grinned and said,
"As long as you save me a bite, dear."
Lila had set up shop, ingredients spread like a painter's palette: fresh basil, ripe tomatoes, a block of creamy burrata, and a loaf of her experimental sourdough.
Her plan was a caprese-inspired tart, a nod to her mom's love for simple, soulful flavors. But as she kneaded dough, her mind kept drifting to Elliot—his smile, his texts, the way he'd looked at her at the gala.
"Focus, Lila," she muttered, dusting flour from her hands.
She couldn't afford distractions, not when culinary school was her ticket out of scrubbing floors.
But the mixer, gleaming like a ruby, was a constant reminder of him.
Of the way he'd said, You're not just anything, Lila.
Her heart did a little flip, and she groaned, smacking the dough harder than necessary.
The kitchen door swung open, and Elliot walked in, casual in a black T-shirt and jeans, his hair slightly mussed like he'd been raking his hands through it.
He stopped, his gray eyes lighting up at the sight of her.
"Am I interrupting a flour massacre?"Lila froze, a dusting of white powder on her cheek.
"Elliot! I—uh, no, just… practicing. For the exam." She gestured to the chaos on the counter, her face warming.
"Mrs. Delaney said I could use the kitchen. I hope that's okay."
"It's more than okay," he said, leaning against the island, close enough that she caught the faint cedarwood scent of him. "You're putting my gift to work. I like it."
She laughed, nervous, tucking a curl behind her ear.
"Yeah, well, this mixer's fancier than my entire apartment. I'm scared to touch it."
"Don't be," he said, his voice warm.
"It's yours. Make it sing."
He glanced at the ingredients, his brows lifting.
"What's the dish?"
"A caprese tart," she said, relaxing into the familiar territory of food.
"Sourdough crust, roasted tomatoes, burrata, basil oil. Simple, but… me. I hope it's enough to impress them."
"It'll be more than enough," he said, his tone so certain it made her chest ache.
"Need a sous-chef? I'm no chef, but I can chop. Or taste-test."
She blinked, caught off guard.
"You want to help? Don't you have, like, a company to run? Or a gala to plan?"
He shrugged, a boyish grin tugging at his lips.
"It's Sunday. Even billionaires get a day off. Besides, I owe you for those pancakes.
"Her heart skipped, but she covered it with a smirk.
"Fine. But if you ruin my tart, I'm blaming you when I bomb the exam."
"Deal," he said, rolling up his sleeves. His forearms were lean, muscled, and distracting.
She looked away, focusing on the dough.
"Okay, sous-chef," she said, handing him a knife and a pile of tomatoes.
"Slice these thin. Like, paper-thin. And don't cut your fingers off—I don't need a lawsuit."
He laughed, the sound rich and easy.
"Yes, Chef."
He started slicing, his movements careful but surprisingly competent.
"Where'd you learn to cook like this? You said it's your mom's recipes?"
"Yeah," she said, rolling out the dough.
"She was a home cook, nothing fancy, but she could make a potato taste like a Michelin star.
She taught me everything—how to knead, how to taste, how to make people feel loved with food."
Her voice softened, a pang of loss creeping in.
"She passed when I was sixteen, but her recipes… they're like having her back.
"Elliot's hands stilled, his eyes meeting hers. "I'm sorry, Lila. That's… she sounds amazing."
"She was," Lila said, smiling through the ache.
"What about you? Any family recipes? Or do billionaires just order takeout?"
He chuckled, resuming his slicing.
"My mom wasn't much of a cook. I grew up on frozen pizza and cereal. But my dad—he made a mean grilled cheese. Burnt half the time, but I loved it."
She grinned, imagining a young Elliot with a charred sandwich.
"Grilled cheese, huh? I'm gonna need to see your skills someday."
"Challenge accepted," he said, his eyes twinkling.
"But only if you teach me how to make this tart first."
They fell into a rhythm, Lila shaping the dough while Elliot sliced tomatoes and chopped basil.
The kitchen filled with the scent of roasting vegetables and the soft hum of the mixer as she blended the basil oil.
It was easy, almost too easy, working side by side with him.
He asked questions—about her recipes, her café dreams, her favorite spices—and listened like he actually cared. Not like a boss, but like… a friend.
Or something more.
"Okay, taste this," she said, dipping a spoon into the basil oil and holding it out.
He leaned in, his lips brushing the spoon, and her breath caught.
His eyes flicked to hers, a spark passing between them.
"Perfect," he said, his voice low.
"You're gonna blow them away."
Her cheeks burned, and she turned back to the tart, assembling it with shaky hands. "Hope so. I just… I can't screw this up. It's everything I've been working for."
"You won't," he said, stepping closer. He reached out, brushing a streak of flour from her cheek.
His fingers lingered, warm against her skin, and her heart stopped.
The kitchen was silent except for the faint hum of the city below, and she was acutely aware of how close he was, how his eyes searched hers, like he was seeing something new.
"Lila," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You're more than you think you are. You know that, right?"
Her throat tightened, words failing her. She wanted to lean into him, to close the gap, but fear held her back.
He was Elliot Voss—billionaire, her boss, a man with a life she couldn't touch.
And yet, his touch felt like a promise, one she wasn't sure she could trust.
The kitchen door swung open, and Mrs. Delaney's voice broke the spell.
"Lila, dear, have you—oh!" She stopped, her eyes widening at the sight of Elliot so close, his hand still near Lila's face.
"I, er, just needed… napkins. Carry on!"
She grabbed a stack from a drawer and scurried out, her cheeks pink.Lila stepped back, her face flaming.
"I should… finish the tart," she said, turning to the counter.
Her hands shook as she arranged the tomatoes, her mind a mess of want and worry.
Elliot cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Yeah, right. I'll, uh, clean up."
He started washing the cutting board, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable
.As they finished, Lila slid the tart into the oven, the timer ticking like a countdown to her sanity.
"Thanks for helping," she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
"You're not bad for a rookie."He grinned, drying his hands.
"High praise from the future chef. You need me to taste-test when it's done?"
She laughed, the tension easing.
"Maybe. But no pressure. I don't want to ruin your billionaire palate."
"My palate's already ruined," he said, his eyes locking on hers.
"Thanks to you."
Her breath hitched, and she looked away, busying herself with the dishes.
They worked in companionable silence until the tart was done, golden and fragrant.
She cut a slice, offering it to him with a nervous smile.
"Moment of truth."
He took a bite, his eyes closing as he chewed.
"Lila," he said, swallowing.
"This is… unreal. They're gonna beg you to enroll."
She beamed, her chest swelling with pride. "You think?"
"I know," he said, and the certainty in his voice made her believe it, just for a moment.
As she packed up, Elliot lingered, watching her.
"You're coming back tomorrow, right? I could use more of this in my life."
He gestured to the tart, but his eyes said something else.
"Yeah," she said, her voice soft.
"I'll be here."
She left the penthouse with a container of tart and a heart full of dangerous hope—not just for the exam, but for something she wasn't ready to name.
But as she rode the subway home, Cassandra's sharp smile flashed in her mind, a reminder that some dreams came with a price.
And Lila wasn't sure she could afford this one.