Christmas with the Beast (The Fiore Family 1)

I wince as I slide the pretty sweater blouse over my body. My already sore shoulder is definitely a little tender after my accident. Everything of mine is still in the car, including my cell phone. I wonder if Anabelle’s freaking out because I promised to call or text as soon as I got here.

I get dressed, but there are no socks and shoes—luckily the floor in this room feels heated. Is this one of his guest bedrooms? I pull open one of the drawers, and it strikes me. No, this is his bedroom. I took a bath in his tub and practically sprawled out naked on his bed. Reaching over, I straighten the covers and then bring his pillow to my nose. It’s selfish and weak, but if this is all I get, then I’ll just have to take that moment.

Franco doesn’t want me here. That thought runs through my head, and I toss the pillow back down. I heard what he said to his brother. “She doesn’t belong here.”

There’s no two ways around it: he has no interest in me. Maybe I misunderstood Fabio or something. It’s also possible that he read more into his brother enjoying my cooking. The man has isolated himself for a reason and clearly would have preferred to keep it that way.

I leave the room before I do something stupid, like cry again. I’ve wasted two good years crying over someone who doesn’t see me as anything other than a chef. To him I’m no different than Gordon Ramsey or Bobby Flay.

Once I exit the massive bedroom, I have no idea where I’m going in this grand estate. Taking the stairs, I stop when I see two large dogs wagging their tails at me. I cross over to them and stick out my hands. They lick them and try to jump on me, but I stop them almost immediately with a wag of my fingers. The huge dogs sit, continuing to swing their tails happily.

“Good boys.” I pet them a bit longer and then I move around to find Franco with the two following behind me.

As soon as I enter the grand living room with the most beautifully decorated Christmas tree that nearly kisses the fourteen-foot ceilings. This one rivals the majesty of the one at Rockefeller Center. My heart warms with the holiday spirit and I wonder if I can get him to change his mind about me being here.

Tears fill my eyes again and I attempt to swipe them away, but they continue to fall and then my nose gets a whiff of something in the air. I follow the smell of burnt chocolate. My nose stings, but I head toward the pungent odor until I reach a swinging door.

“Oh my goodness,” a woman’s voice sounds behind me with the click of her heels. “I forgot about the hot cocoa.” I step out of her way before she runs me over, but then I rush behind her into the insanely beautiful and enormous kitchen that’s hazy from the charred pot on the stove. She quickly turns off the burner.

“Don’t touch,” I call out, but it’s too late. She touches the handle without gloves and sends the saucepan to the floor, screaming.

I rush around, grabbing the oven mitts and pick up the pan, tossing it in the sink. Then I turn on the cold water, letting the faucet run in the other side of the double sink. “Soak your hands. I’ll look for a medical kit.” The room wafts with smoke, so I turn on the exhaust and then rush to the windows nearby, opening them to clear the air.

I dig through the usual spots and right where I expect it, there’s a first aid kit. “Great. We need to put some cream on the burn, and then you can sit back and relax without touching anything for a long while.” It’s nothing new that I haven’t dealt with in the kitchen over the years. People lose their common sense when things get chaotic.

“Thank you. I’m the housekeeper, Rita Watkins, and if you can’t tell, I’m a terrible cook. So bad that I can’t even make hot cocoa,” she says, half-smiling, half grimacing from the pain.

“I’m Isabelle, and I’m a fabulous cook. Who normally does the cooking around here?” This place is meant to be enjoyed, and a sense of jealousy overcomes me. He let someone else feed him; it’s stupid and petty, but the hurt burns in my chest.

“He has a personal chef, but he’s visiting family.” He? At least it’s not another woman.

“Oh. That makes sense. It’s Christmas Eve, after all,” I say absentmindedly staring out the window. The snow falls heavily, and it would be picturesque if it weren’t for the ache in my chest. “I suppose the rest of the family isn’t coming tonight.”