1
Cora Rydberg
There’s nothing like stepping into a huge kitchen with all the bells and whistles—gas stove, huge island, tons of kitchen space, chef-quality pots and pans and utensils.
Then again, since I picked most of this stuff out, it should feel pretty damn good coming here.
“Here” is my place of employment—that is, the home of LA Wolves tight end Wyatt Williams. I’m his personal chef and have been for about a year, though working with pro athletes and celebrities is nothing new to me. Athletes and public figures usually have one thing in common: they have relatively strict diets to keep them performing on the field or in front of a camera or on a stage.
Working with Wyatt is interesting for two reasons. One, he’s an incredibly picky eater, so coming up with recipes that meet his nutritional requirements as well as satisfying his taste buds is a challenge, but I enjoy it.
The other reason it’s interesting is because of the enormous crush I have on him. And by interesting, I mean torture.
I pride myself on my professionalism and would never dare cross a line. Especially because he got out of a relationship about three months ago. But he is a fine, fine male specimen—creamy light-brown skin stretched taut over large, well- developed muscles; perfect teeth; straight nose; luscious, full lips that make me want to feed him strawberries and cream; and deep brown eyes that have the power to hypnotize me into idiocy. The cherry on top of all of that is his deep, velvety voice.
I shake myself. I was in the process of pulling ingredients out of the massive, stainless-steel, French-door refrigerator and then just dumbed out. That’s what he does to me.
I come here three times a week, sometimes four. I do a combination of meal prepping breakfast and lunch for his long days of practice and other things, but he prefers fresh dinners. This afternoon, he’s home and in the office down the hall, talking on the phone.
Dinner tonight will be baked salmon with a creamy dill sauce, roasted baby Yukons, string beans, and sautéed spinach. Dinner tomorrow will be a jam-glazed chicken, rice, and mixed vegetables. I get to work.
I’m not actively trying to eavesdrop on his call, but I can’t help but hear him as his voice raises a little.
“Drea, I told you about this months ago,” he snaps. “The kids are expecting us at the hospital in a few days. It doesn’t matter that the public thinks—correctly—that we broke up. I don’t give a shit about that. I give a shit about making sick kids smile. You should, too.”
I cringe. Drea Donato is an actress who’s been on a couple of soaps, some sitcoms, an HBO series, and a handful of movies. She’s definitely what I’d classify as up-and-coming, and she’s got a big social media presence. I don’t really know why they broke up, but then again, that’s none of my business.
Even if she is a colossal idiot for letting him go.
“You’d rather go to a designer shop grand opening than visiting sick kids who are expecting to see you?” Wyatt says, the disbelief heavy in his voice. There’s a long pause while I’m guessing Drea is making her case. “Fine. Whatever. Bye.”
Wyatt usually pops his head into the kitchen to say hello, but I hear him heading upstairs, presumably to his bedroom.
Dinner for tomorrow is baking in one of his double ovens, so I get started on tonight’s dinner. It’s a little after six, and he likes to eat around six thirty, so I’ll be right on time. I chop and dice and sauté, then pop the salmon into the oven and start cleaning up. He’s never asked me to clean up the kitchen when I’m done, and in fact has discouraged it, but I always do. It’s just part of my process. You have to close the kitchen when you’re done.
With a few minutes left on the salmon, I decide to head upstairs to let him know dinner’s about ready. It feels pretty personal and even a little invasive, but Wyatt asked me to do that when he hired me, since he often gets wrapped up in his off-field work, which includes a lot of charity work for animal shelters and kids, and he likes to talk to his fans on social media via streaming videos. Often, he delivers encouraging and inspiring messages several times a week.
Yeah, I follow him. So what?
I knock on his bedroom door. “Mr. Williams? Dinner’s almost ready.”
The door flies open. Wyatt stands before me, his phone in his hand, wearing a distracted expression . . . and a towel.
And nothing else.
I let out a squeak.
His skin gleams with water droplets as if he’s just gotten out of the shower. His muscles glint under the recessed lighting in his large bedroom.
But what catches my eye is the long, thick bulge clearly outlined beneath the towel.
“Oh, sorry,” he says quickly, turning away. “I’m really sorry. I was in the middle of something—I’m so sorry.”
The oven timer going off downstairs saves us both.
“No problem,” I say in a weirdly high-pitched voice, pivoting. “Yeah. So. Dinner’s ready. I’ll let you get dressed. Okay, bye now.”
Okay, bye now? I chastise myself as I haul ass down the stairs. My face is hot, my heart is pounding, and I’m totally embarrassed.
And more than a little turned on.
If I’m lucky, I can get the hell out of here before he comes back downstairs.
But of course, I’m not that lucky.
I’ve just picked up my jacket and bag and am heading to the door when he comes down. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved hoodie, matching knee-length shorts, and socks.
“Hey,” he says, catching my forearm with a large, gentle hand. “I’m sorry about that.” Then, as if realizing he shouldn’t be touching me, he drops my arm.
My cheeks blaze even hotter and I shove an errant lock of blonde hair that’s escaped my ponytail behind one ear. I can’t meet his gaze. My skin tingles where he touched me.
“No problem,” I manage, then squeeze past him out the door. “Goodnight.”
It takes me a long, long time to fall asleep that night. All I can think about is how he looked in that towel.
2
Wyatt Williams
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
Liz, my publicist, twists her lips in a scowl. I’ve been working with her since I signed with the Wolves, and I swear she was a drill sergeant in a past life. She’s not someone you’d want to piss off, even though her silver-gray hair and designer wardrobe make her seem like a super stylish older aunt. I do everything she tells me and I don’t question it.
Today, we’re having a meeting at my house to talk about the fallout from my ex-girlfriend bailing on her agreement to appear at the children’s hospital with me. Granted, we decided to do this while we were still together, but I still expected her to show up. We can tolerate each other for the hour with the kids.
The visit was my idea. I’ve made it a priority to use my platform and privilege to help sick children and animal shelters—my two passions. I lost a young cousin to a rare form of cancer about ten years ago, and I always knew if I ever got to be in a fortunate position, I’d do what I could to bring joy to sick kids, ease the financial burden on their parents, and generally give back to the world. So Drea knew what this idea, this visit meant to me. She agreed to dress up as Minnie Mouse alongside my Mickey, go to the cancer ward, and surprise the kids. Then we were going to remove our costume heads to reveal ourselves, take pictures, hand out presents, and hopefully make the kids and their families feel extra-special and cared for.