Served with a Side of Trouble

Served with a Side of Trouble- Part Three

The clock on Julian's nightstand read 6:58 AM when he jolted awake, his sleep-fogged brain taking precious seconds to register why adrenaline was already coursing through his veins. Breakfast. The new chef. The standoff.

Julian flung himself out of bed, yanking on a silk robe with such force that a seam protested with a tiny ripping sound. No time to change. He'd make his entrance precisely at seven—not a minute early, not a minute late—showing Luca Reyes that Julian Deveraux adhered to his own schedule, not anyone else's.

He slid down the last three steps of the grand staircase in socked feet, narrowly avoiding a collision with Mrs. Winters, who clutched her clipboard to her chest like a shield.

"Young Mr. Dev—"

"Not now," Julian hissed, finger-combing his hair as he power-walked toward the kitchen. The ornate grandfather clock in the hallway began its sonorous chiming. One, two, three...

Julian threw open the kitchen door on the seventh chime, prepared for his dramatic entrance—only to find the room completely empty.

No breakfast. No tantalizing aromas. No infuriatingly confident chef.

Just gleaming countertops, pristine appliances, and the soft hum of the refrigerator mocking his expectations.

Julian stood frozen, mouth slightly open, as confusion gave way to indignation. Had Luca forgotten? Was this some kind of power play? Or worse—had Julian somehow misunderstood their arrangement?

The side door swung open, and Luca backed into the kitchen, arms laden with an overflowing basket. He wore faded jeans and a t-shirt instead of chef whites, and his hair was damp with morning dew.

"Good morning." Luca set the basket on the counter, seemingly unsurprised by Julian's presence. "You're up early."

"It's seven o'clock," Julian said through clenched teeth. "Exactly seven. When breakfast was supposed to be served."

Luca glanced at the clock on the microwave and raised an eyebrow. "So it is."

"So where," Julian gestured expansively around the empty kitchen, his silk robe billowing dramatically with the movement, "is my breakfast?"

"Coming right up," Luca replied, maddeningly unperturbed as he began unpacking the basket. Fresh herbs, their scent sharp and green in the morning air, tumbled onto the cutting board. "I was just collecting these from the garden. Your groundskeeper showed me the herb beds yesterday."

Julian's stomach chose that precise moment to emit a traitorous growl. He crossed his arms, attempting to maintain his dignity. "You expect me to wait while you... what? Forage for dandelions?"

Luca's lips twitched. "I expect you to wait approximately eight minutes while I make you the best omelet you've ever tasted." He cracked eggs into a bowl with one-handed precision. "Unless you'd prefer cereal? There's some sort of rainbow-colored abomination in the pantry. Looks like it would turn the milk neon blue."

"That's for the housekeeper's grandson," Julian muttered, then immediately regretted offering this unnecessary explanation.

"Hmm." Luca whisked the eggs with quick, efficient movements, adding a pinch of something green. "Eight minutes. You can time me."

Julian glanced around for somewhere to sit that would allow him to maintain his affronted dignity. Finding no suitable options, he hoisted himself onto a counter, wincing as the cold marble met the backs of his thighs.

"I'm not wearing pants," he announced, immediately wanting to sink through the floor as Luca's eyebrows shot up. "I mean—I'm not dressed for breakfast. Because someone didn't have it ready at the appointed time."