“Sure. Great. I’ll just be a sec.”

She disappears into the kitchen and reappears a few minutes later with a pink diamanté harness and lead in her hand along with what looks to be a pink leopard-print dog coat.

For fuck’s sake. That poor goat.

“Are you putting that on the goat?”

“Of course I am.” She crouches down and starts putting the collar onto Gucci. “It’s a new area for her; she’s not familiar with it. And I don’t feel comfortable letting her roam free.”

“I was talking about the hideous dog coat.”

Speedy frowns up at me. “It’s a goat coat. I bought it especially for her, and she loves it.”

“She tell you that?”

She gives me a look. “She did as a matter of fact.”

“Okay, Dr. Dolittle. But you do realize that we live in LA where it’s pretty much hot as fuck all the time.”

“It’s actually a little chilly out today. I don’t want her to catch a cold.” She gets to her feet.

“Speedy, the only thing that goat is going to catch is a ribbing from its goat friends.”

“God, you’re annoying.” She shakes her head, irritated, and then spins on her heel.

“Hey, that’s my line!” I call to her.

She puts her hand behind her back and flips me off.

I laugh.

I fucking love winding her up. It’s become my new favorite pastime.

Smiling to myself, I follow them to the elevator, get inside, and press the button for the ground floor.


I’m feeling a little nervous, cooking for Gabe. I know I’ve cooked for him already, but that was just a straightforward soup and some pancakes.

I want to make this nice because I want to thank him for what he’s doing for me and Gucci—hiring me to take care of him and letting us stay here.

He doesn’t have to do that.

Not that I really do that much, apart from getting him drinks when he wants them and feeding him. Oh, and helping him out of the bath, which I had to do again before I started dinner.

And, dear God, it’s hard to stop myself from taking a peek at his cock to see how big it actually is.

I can’t exactly give him shit for staring at my boobs and then go and look at his cock without his permission.

And is it bad of me that I actually kind of like it when he stares at the girls?

I know it’s not very feminist of me, but I like the fact that he thinks I have great breasts. Not that I’d ever admit that to him.

It’s just, he’s Gabriel Evans, hottest guy in the world, lusted after by millions, who’s probably seen lots of girls’ boobs—famous models’ and actresses’ boobs—and he thinks that I, and I quote, “have the best rack” he’s ever seen in his life.

Hell yeah!

But, anyway, I don’t really feel like I’m earning my money, and it doesn’t sit well with me, so I’m going to ask him if there are more jobs that I can do around the house.

Dinner’s almost ready, so I call out from the kitchen to Gabe, “Where do you want to eat dinner? At the table or in the living room?”

“Living room’s fine,” he calls back. “You need me to do anything?”

“No, I got it.”

I serve up the jerk-seasoned pulled pork that I just made into a dish. Then, I turn the heat off the stove and dish out the spicy-jerk prawns with mango into another waiting bowl. I get a tray from the cupboard and put the pulled pork, jerk prawns, tortillas, banana salsa, and coconut dressing that I made earlier on it. I grab the prepackaged salad from the fridge and empty it into another dish. I put it on the tray, which is looking pretty full.

I’ll have to come back for the plates.

I pick up the tray and carry it through to the living room. Gabe is on the sofa, foot up on the footstool, watching TV. Gucci is laid out on the rug, fast asleep, but then her head perks up at the smell of food.

I put the tray on the coffee table.

“I’ll just grab the plates, and I’ll be back. You want anything to drink?” I grab the two empty beer bottles off the coffee table.

“Do you want wine with dinner?” he asks.


“There are some bottles in the wine cooler. Take your pick.”

“Okay.” I go back in the kitchen and drop the beer bottles in the recycling bin.

I get another tray and put two plates on it along with some serving cutlery. We don’t need any other utensils, as this is finger food. Then, I get two wine glasses and pick out a nice Riesling, which will nicely accompany the food. I remove the cork and then carry everything into the living room.

When I get there, Gabe is sitting on the rug near the coffee table, his leg stretched out on the floor.

“You okay sitting there?” I ask, putting the other tray down.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I thought it’d be easier to sit here, and then I can get to the food.”

“I would have made you a plate,” I tell him as I kneel on the rug across from him and next to Gucci.

She moves up and rests her head against my leg, so I give her head a scratch.

She baaahhhs softly.

And Gabe laughs.

“What?” I ask him.

“Just thinking of when I first heard that noise, and I thought she was a fucking sheep.”

“Now, that would have been crazy, if I had a sheep as a pet.” I laugh.

“Yeah, about as crazy as having a goat as one.”

“Ass.” I laugh again and then hand him a plate.

“This looks great. Not to be ignorant, but what is it?”

“That’s jerk pulled pork.” I point to it. “And that’s spicy-jerk prawns with mango.” I indicate the other dish. “There’s coconut dressing and banana salsa to dress them with.”

“You made all of this?”


I pour out two glasses of wine and put one in front of Gabe while he’s busy filling up a tortilla with the jerk prawns.

I grab a tortilla and put some pork, salad, and banana salsa in it. Then, I wrap it up and take a bite.

Gabe takes a bite of the taco. His eyes close on a moan.

And my girlie bits come to life in response. My body lights up. And my nipples get embarrassingly hard.

Please don’t show through my clothes.

His eyes open, and he takes another bite. The taco is almost gone; his bites are that big.

“Good?” I ask him.

“So fucking good,” he groans around a mouthful. He chews and swallows it down. Then, he puts the last of the taco in his mouth. “Fuck, Speedy. My stomach thanks you.” He grabs another tortilla and starts loading that up.

My cheeks heat at the compliment. “It’s no biggie.”

“Maybe not to you since you come from a family of chefs. But, to a guy who lives on takeout, this is amazing. What kind of restaurant do your parents have?” he asks me.

“New American cuisine. It’s a bar and restaurant.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s in New York.”

“I’ll have to go next time I’m there. What’s it called?”

“Simms. You know, our surname. Nothing original. Just let me know when you’re going to be there, and I’ll make sure you get the best table.”

He takes a drink of his wine and then starts in on his taco. “Why didn’t you become a chef?”

I put my food down on my plate. “Because I know firsthand how demanding the job is. I saw the hours my parents put into the restaurant—and still do—and, as much as I love cooking, I knew it wasn’t for me. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, to be honest, and after college, I just fell into working in wardrobe. I’ve always loved clothes, and it’s a fun job, so it works for me.”

“And your brother? You said he’s a lawyer, right?”

“Yeah, a corporate lawyer. It takes him all over the world.”

“Where is he at the moment?”


“Great city.”

“You’ve been there?”

“A couple of times, promoting movies.”

“Ah, right. I’d love to go. The farthest I’ve ever been is Hawaii on a family holiday when I was a kid.” I pick my glass up and take a sip. “So, I know what your brother does. But what do your parents do?”

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