Dad bod troll, p.4
Dad Bod: Troll, page 4
Dawn is breaking over the city and the colors which fire in through the huge double height windows, ones which take up an entire wall, are stunning. I find myself captivated for a few seconds before I check the area for one big, grumpy troll.
It’s empty. Whatever the noise was, I decide, it’s gone.
And I’m wide awake, so I may as well make some coffee.
The kitchen is well equipped. In fact it is vastly over equipped, with gadgets of every single kind. Four ovens set into a wall don’t seem to have any controls. I can’t tell where the hob is, but I’m guessing it’s somewhere on the granite worktop on the kitchen island. As for a kettle, it doesn’t seem to exist. After some searching, I finally open up a hidden area where there is a coffee machine, and after some considerable swearing, I get the thing going.
The sharp, dark smell of coffee fills the area, and it makes watching the sun rise quite magical.
Finally, I pour myself a cup, add some milk, and turn around to find Mr. Troll stood on the other side of the long island. I very nearly drop my hot drink as I squeak in alarm.
He’s fully dressed in a dark three-piece suit, this time without the pinstripes. It fits him perfectly, skimming over his paunch (which I find a bit cute anyway) and making his shoulders look very impressive.
“I’m sorry.” I attempt to cover my shock and embarrassment. “I didn’t hear you. Would you like some coffee?”
He lowers his horns and glowers with those stunning eyes. I’m very slightly worried I’ve overstepped.
“You’ve made yourself at home,” he says, finally, sliding onto one of the barstools on the opposite side of the island. It creaks under his weight.
“Is that a yes?” I counter.
“Yes. Cream, two sugars,” he grunts.
This troll really knows how to live.
I make him his coffee and set it down in front of him. I watch as he inhales the steam, both huge hands encircling it. He takes a sip and sighs with pleasure. I find myself mesmerized as I watch how those pillowy lips wrap around his big tusks.
Something I should not be doing. I need to think about anything else other than his lips.
“So,” I say. “Just what sort of work do you want me to do for you?”
Max
It’s the question I’ve been dreading. After my headache knocked me sick for most of the night, once it finally abated, I sat in the dark and contemplated my hasty actions.
Victoria wants to know what I have planned.
I have nothing, absolutely nothing other than the intense desire not to be apart from her.
“You seem to know your way around a kitchen, Ms. Graham,” I say, sipping the coffee she made, which tastes like a little piece of home.
“Vikki,” she says.
“Vikki?”
“Everyone calls me Vikki.” She puts down her cup. “And you want me to cook for you?”
I nod. “Yes, you can cook for me.”
“And that’s all. For half a million, you want me to cook for you.” Her eyebrows are nearly in her hairline.
The soft silk of the black nightgown drapes over her perfect body, her raised nipples making it increasingly difficult for me to look her in her eyes. I’m also finding it hard not to squirm on my seat, given the destruction which is about to unleash in my pants if I don’t get a fucking grip.
“There are other things, but I need to clear them with the office first,” I snap, draining the rest of my coffee. “Order what you think you’ll need.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out my notepad and pen, writing down the wifi password details for the penthouse, the website I use for ordering in my groceries, along with the login details before I tear off the sheet and slide it over to her.
“I’ll have my assistant contact you to arrange a fitting. Give me your phone,” I order.
Vikki blinks her incredible, beautiful eyes at me, stunned.
“A what, my what?” she whispers.
I’m so close to doing what I shouldn’t do, what I did in the corridor last night after the auction, the very reason we’re here, right now. I want this vulnerable, fierce, beautiful, dangerous creature in my arms and in my bed. I want to rut her like I’ve never rutted before. Gods! I want to fill her.
“Your phone. Give it to me,” I grind past my tusks.
I have to focus.
Vikki reaches into the pocket of her dressing gown and hands me over a battered smartphone. I make a mental note to arrange a new one for her today. I punch in my number, text myself, and then and save it to her contacts after a brief scroll to see who else is in them. There are a couple I will be arranging for my security team to check out.
“You have a message from your former employers,” I inform her. “You will need to tell them you are no longer available for a shift today.” I slide the phone back across the island.
Vikki snatches it up and gives me one of her glares. She checks the message and thumbs an answer.
“So, I’m cooking dinner?”
“Yes,” I say, gathering up my laptop case. “I have a busy day. I’ll see you tonight and we can talk about the rest of the month.”
In no time at all, I’m out of my apartment and in the elevator, exhaling harshly at the swift exit. I am fit, at least as fit as I was in my last battle. My breathlessness is merely due to how good Vikki is at stealing it from me.
I shake my head as the lift descends. I’ve got myself into a complete mess.
What exactly am I going to do with a human in my house for another whole month? One my body finds completely irresistible and my head thinks I’ve taken leave of my senses.
Which I probably have. My life has been one of order, of work and business. I built Quake Industries into both an Upper and Lowerworld leader in manufacturing of every type. I’ve made my fortune many, many times over. And I did it all without even the thought of a female in my head.
Until now. Until everything unravelled at the sight of Vikki up on that stage.
“Good morning, Mr. Horenson,” my chauffeur greets me as I slide into the comfortable leather seats of the Bentley.
“Morning, Neville.”
“The office, sir?” he asks as the big car purrs out of the garage.
My phone rings. I nod at Neville as I see it’s Peter calling.
“Yes.”
“It’s here,” he says, deadpan.
“What?”
“The invitation. And this year they want you take part in the charitable section of the evening.”
“Fuck!” I swear under my breath.
The one thing I dread…the only thing I dread. The yearly invitation to the Monster Mansion House ball. Where all the great and good of the business Upper and Lowerworld attend in order to flaunt their wealth, in the case of many of them, to find themselves a partner.
Not a business partner.
And what’s worse, I’m considered to be eligible.
It might only be eight thirty am, but I dig out my cigar case. It’s going to be that sort of day.
Vikki
This is a nightmare. It has to be. I’ve already set the smoke alarms off twice and had to deal with an increasingly irate building manager. The kitchen might look state of the art, but I don’t think it’s been wired up correctly.
I can’t properly work the appliances as there are no instructions anywhere, even online, because the makers are so exclusive, they don’t need to put their information out so the worlds can see.
It further doesn’t help I’ve been bombarded with text messages from someone calling themselves “Peter” and claiming to be Max’s assistant. He’s been wanting to arrange an evening at a very upmarket department store for my “fittings,” and I’ve been wanting to tell him to take a running jump. Especially as I’ve ended up stuck in the dress from last night as, other than a pair of clean (and lacy) knickers, the silky night clothes were the only thing in Alyssia’s Gladstone bag.
Plus, whilst I’ve attempted to tell my horrible landlord I’ve got a great paying job and I’ll be able to clear my debts by the end of the month, with screenshots of my contract, his noncommittal responses have not filled me with hope I won’t return to my house and find the locks changed.
Still, with half a million in my bank, I can afford to buy the place. I just can’t afford to lose all the photos of my mum before she passed. My entire life, such as it is, is in my cottage.
I can cook. I’ve been able to cook since I was a student and didn’t fancy existing on Pot Noodles and crisp sandwiches. I loved cooking for my housemates, and my Sunday dinner became somewhat legendary.
But cooking in this kitchen, for a billionaire leader of industry (yes, I googled Max the second he left the apartment), who’s used to the good life and a confirmed bachelor (yes, I googled that too, so sue me)—this type of cooking is beyond me. Along with the nerves and the awful kitchen, I’m pretty certain he’s going to sack me on the spot.
I look at the mangled mess on the counter and roll up my sleeves. If nothing else, maybe I can make it look pretty.
And make his smart kitchen look less like a disaster zone.
So finally, around 8pm, Max rolls in. He looks as fresh as he did this morning in his neat, handmade suit, shiny, shiny shoes, sparkling gold tie pin, watch, and watch chain. He sniffs the air.
“Something smells good.”
How little he knows….
“Yeah.” I don’t want to offer an opinion. “If you want to…” I hesitate. I don’t want to mention getting changed, that might seem forward. “It’s ready when you are, just say and I’ll serve.”
Max takes off his suit jacket and casually flings it onto the back of the circular couch combo which curls around the large wood burning stove which sits in the one solid wall of this entire place. Above the fire is the most enormous oil painting of Max, dressed in his customary pinstripe and holding a cigar. His face has a slight sadness about it which almost makes having a fucking massive painting of yourself a reasonable thing to do, and not a huge over indulgence.
Almost.
I’ve done some exploring and so far, most of the doors have been locked, which has certainly piqued my interest and, as long as I still have a job, I’m going to ask for a tour.
“I’m ready now,” Max says, strolling over to the dining table which I’ve done my best to make as inviting as possible with sparkling crystal glasses and, essentially, every item I could find to dress it in the kitchen and the rest of the living area. Including a massive vase I’ve filled with flowers, and I see Max wrinkling his nose at as he sits.
The dining area is almost as large as the rest of the living area, the table seating fourteen easily. It looks out over the city, which, as it’s dark now, is a mass of twinkling lights and our reflections.
He looks at me with anticipation.
I am absolutely going to be sacked.
Carrying over a warmed plate, I put it down in front of him, doing my best not to notice his cologne. The scent of cigar smoke is a mere hint tonight, but the spicy citrus of Max is quite delicious.
Returning to the kitchen, I get out the various serving bowls and take them over, placing the steamed vegetables in front of him. I return to the oven and pull out what should have been the piéce de resistance. A beef fillet Wellington.
The sad looking burnt thing sitting in a pool of red on the platter sends my heart sinking.
I whip out a carving knife and slice through it. It’s virtually raw in the middle and the pastry is as soggy as can be. I slide the slices onto a separate plate and carry them over, serving them with a flourish.
“And this is?” Max asks.
“Beef au Choux, done in the school of Graham style,” I announce with a confidence I muster up from somewhere.
Max spoons some of the veg onto his plate and picks up his knife and fork.
“Are you not eating?” he asks.
Oh fuck.
“Yes,” I say with forced brightness. “Of course. Let me get a plate.”
I return to the table to find Max waiting for me, which means I have to serve myself as he watches.
“Oh! Wine,” I exclaim, leaping up from the meal to scurry back to the kitchen, wishing he’d just get it over with.
The sacking that is.
I return with the bottle and he’s chewing thoughtfully.
Oh, my god, he’s eating it!
I pour us both large glasses of wine, and I take my seat opposite him, staring down at the food. I cut the smallest of morsels off and put it in my mouth.
It comes straight back out.
“Oh, Mr. Horenson…Max…” I blurt out. “I’m so sorry, this is awful. I can cook, honestly. But the kitchen is all new to me, and I couldn’t get things to work and…” I grab my wine and very nearly down the entire glass until I feel a hand on mine.
Big trolls sure can move fast.
“Slower,” he intones.
My insides turn to jelly. His hand is hot over mine and the onyx claws stand out against my skin.
“This is the worst meal I think I’ve ever had,” he says.
I can’t help it, my eyes fill with tears. Stupid tears because I’ve nothing to cry about.
“Anyone else would have got caterers in and passed the food off as their own,” Max continues. “But you didn’t. Why?”
I choke on a sob. It had simply never even occurred to me.
“I…I…” My voice is hoarse as I attempt to navigate the churn of emotions. “That would be dishonest. If I say I’m going to do something, I do it.”
Max’s bright eyes seem to pierce into my soul. I hold my breath, hating the hot tears on my cheeks. He throws his head back and laughs, a deep, rich sound which hits me in the stomach.
“You certainly did it,” he says once he’s finished, his eyes alighting on the table. “I mean, some of it was perfect.”
“Except the food.”
“Except the food,” he says, his huge hand encircling my wrist. “But I appreciate the effort and your honesty. Why don’t we order take out?”
Max
My heart is still rolling in my chest. Vikki's lack of deception, her insistence on taking the terrible meal to completion because I asked her to cook for me, is not what I expected at all.
People always take a short cut. Humans are usually the worst for it, although goblins could give them a run for their money.
I send a message to my favorite restaurant and tuck my phone away, holding out my hand to Vikki.
“I have something for you,” I say.
She eyes me a little suspiciously but then puts her hand in mine, and I think my heart is going to pound out of my chest. She rises and I take her over to the seating area, sitting her comfortably while I retrieve my briefcase.
“This is for you.” I hand her a small rectangular box.
“It’s a phone.” Her sweet brow furrows. “I have a phone.”
“That relic is not a phone. If you’re going to work for me, I need to be sure you can be contacted at any time, without the risk of tech failure.”
“Max,” she says, her voice the most perfect of pitches, and I stare down at her as she turns the white box over and over in her little hands.
“Yes?”
She lifts her head.
“What exactly do you want from me?”
I can’t quite fathom her emotions. It seems she’s deliberately trying to keep them from showing on her otherwise expressive face.
The intercom chimes and I am literally saved by the bell.
“That’ll be the food.” I smile. I’m not sure it helps.
I greet the ogre Maitre D’ from Gravin’s warmly, mostly because I am absolutely starving.
“Monsieur Horenson!” he lisps, beckoning in the rest of the waiting staff, loaded down with bags.
“Thank you for this, Jean,” I reply. “It is much appreciated.”
“For our favorite customer? Anything.” He chuckles, as if he hasn’t done this before.
Then he spies Vikki and the green skin at his eyes crinkles farther. “And for such a pretty lady too.”
Don’t growl, don’t growl, don’t growl.
“Ms. Graham is my…girlfriend…companion…” I blurt out. “Anything she wants, I expect you to get it for her.”
“Of course.” Jean does a little bow which looks absolutely ridiculous. He clicks his fingers at his staff who finish setting out the food on the dining table and file past him, out the door.
“Anything at all, Monsieur Horenson.” He grins at me. “You only need to call.”
The apartment seems incredibly empty when they leave. Empty and frosty.
“Come and eat,” I say, not daring to meet Vikki's gaze. “I ordered some of everything because I wasn’t sure what you liked.”
I sit down at the table which she has set so beautifully and start to help myself to the steaming, delicious smelling dishes. I add a juicy steak, plenty of potatoes, and, just to be good, a small helping of green beans.
Vikki slides into the seat opposite me. She doesn’t eat. Instead she steeples her fingers.
“I’ve been thinking about our arrangement,” I plough on. “Given cooking isn’t exactly what you’re cut out to do,”
Vikki opens her mouth to protest and I hold up a fork to silence her.
“And it’s not actually something I need either.” I gesture to the spread in front of us. “What I do need is a companion. I have a number of social engagements coming up in the next few weeks, and it would help me enormously if I had someone with me.”
There is a very stony silence.
“You want to pay me half a million pounds to pretend to be your girlfriend for a month,” Vikki finally says, her voice dull and her eyes not leaving me for a second.
I swirl the last of my sirloin in the delicious sauce au poivre and put the morsel in my mouth. Like the rest of the steak, it melts in my mouth, and I can’t help but make a little grunt of enjoyment.
“I want to pay you for a month of work. I hate social engagements. I’d rather be anywhere else in the entire world than at another idiotic party filled with vacuous socialites and boorish males, or even bearish males.” I laugh at my shifter joke, but Vikki doesn’t. “Believe me, being my companion is work and you will earn your money.”
