LITMIR.BIZ

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chitchat, but my mind was miles away. Oh, man, Edward is here, I thought. The Gastronome’s Trust hadn’t told me that part. I fished in my bag for a lipstick.

      ****

      My first ever job here had had me training with the Hall’s permanent chef, Edward. Before I’d met him, I’d heard through the grapevine that he was well liked by the staff and family – except possibly Jasper Roth. I’d also heard from a couple of the maids and another chef from my agency that he was sex on legs. And they were not wrong. Since that training stint, on occasion I’d been brought on as sous-chef to assist Edward with an especially large party or event, and to fill in when Edward was on vacation. The Earl and Countess were endlessly hosting weddings at The Hall for extended family. This was the kind of house that was staffed up at all times.

      The first time we were introduced in the kitchen of The Hall, Edward had turned around from the stove and smiled. His face was so handsome. Not hard, but not pretty in any way, edged with the faintest 5 o’clock shadow. I sucked in my breath and blurted the first thing that came to my mind, “I love your Crocs!” I’d been told he was good looking, but that simple fact didn’t begin to paint the picture. It wasn’t just about his looks. It was more his essence. I felt like an animal, pulled in at cell-level by whatever invisible scent or sound it was he gave off that made me want him. When he locked eyes with me, I embarrassed myself by thinking that he had decided right then and there to take me to bed.

      “I’ve never seen them in white!” I blathered. “Are they comfortable?”

      “Like walking on air,” he said slowly. His voice landed right below my belly, and vibrated there.

      “But I’ve worn Danskos like yours, too,” he said easily. “Now I’ve got my foot problem solved, maybe you can help me manage my ‘chef’s arse.’” He laughed a velvety laugh, and his eyes twinkled. Against my will, I laughed, too.

      Chef’s arse is the insider term for the occupational hazard of moving constantly in a sweaty environment, causing your pants to chafe, which might be the reason for chefs’ fabled tempers. It was a bold thing to say to a stranger, very un-English. I took a step closer to him.

      “I swear by cornstarch,” I told him. “But a friend in New York told me about this ointment called Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.” I realized I was flirting, but couldn’t stop myself. It felt like jumping off a cliff. “And it leaves you smelling sweet like a baby.”

      “Sweet is good,” he said, smiling at me with his wolfish, lopsided grin.

      “Everything in moderation, I suppose,” I’d said. I heard my own voice and it sounded hollow and echo-y, as if I was hearing someone else talk down a long tunnel. I was alarmed at the attraction I felt. For heaven’s sake, Juliet, I said to myself. Keep it in your pants.

      “Well, fun’s over,” I said briskly, pulling myself back together. It was time to behave like a professional chef, instead of a starry-eyed fangirl. “This food isn’t going to cook itself.”

      “Don’t worry, we’ve got loads of time.”

      “I’ll hold up my end, Chef,” I told him, pulling out a cutting board. “No need to baby me.”

      “Ah, don’t be one of those,” he’d told me, with soft, amused eyes. “Life’s too short.”

      ****

      “Seamus, but you really don’t have to wait on me,” I told him as he carried my bags to the back entrance of the Hall. “I’m just staff, remember?” I said, making a feeble attempt to stop him. “If you set a precedent like this, you’ll be carrying me around on a litter like Cleopatra before Christmas comes.”

      “Nonsense. You’re not ‘just’ anything. We’re all so pleased that it’s you assisting Edward. It might have been that grumpy old Frenchman who pretends not to understand English spoken by Irish folk. Now, take yourself to the kitchen…My dear Rose put the kettle on when she heard you come over the grate, and I’ll wager she’s laid out biscuits and some sherry to go with the tea.”

      Seamus and his wife Rose, the housekeeper, live in Rose Cottage, the largest on the grounds. It was built when Rose was new in service to the Earl, and she was the first to dwell in it. Seamus had already been working on the grounds when she was hired. Eventually, she and Seamus married and raised their son, Isaac, in the cozy abode. She’d lived there so long I doubt anyone could remember whether the cottage was named after her or the flower bushes that surrounded it.

      Seamus and Rose, both from Ireland, are somewhere in their late fifties. Rose stands around 5’ tall and is nearly that wide. Seamus is around 6’4” and lanky as a beanpole. Rose usually cuts through the shock when they’re introduced as a pair by saying, “There’s a cup for every saucer, isn’t there?”

      Trudging along the dark path, I started feeling a little better. I ached to be near Rose and her warm kindness, like a mum to the whole world.

      “Ah, here we are, go on through and join the others,” Seamus said as he peeled off down the path to carry my luggage to my cottage. Walking in the door to the pantry that lead to the kitchen, I wasn’t surprised to first see Terrence, the butler at the hall, wielding a bottle as he turned.

      “Look what the cat dragged in! Merry Christmas Eve Eve Eve,” he said as he jumped up to slip my coat off and hang up my shoulder bag. He took a quick moment to slide the purse onto his own shoulder. He was wearing a long, silk smoking jacket and, oddly, a kerchief around his head, tied at the top with a rabbit-ears-like bow.

      “Oooooh, Prada! I wouldn’t have thought a sensible girl like you would be hauling around something this glam! Does it go with my dress?” he asked, cat- walking across the kitchen.

      “It’s a hand-me-down from Posy,” I told him.

      “She’s a poshie, isn’t she? I saw that photo of her in that trench coat in the Daily Mail. Supreme! If I were her dad, I’d put her in every advert for that airline of his. Maybe she’ll rub off on you.”

      Rex came barreling through the kitchen, trying to find traction on the slick, wide beam wooden floor, sliding into the table and yelping.

      “Not much chance. I’m just me. She was born to be fabulous.”

      “Could someone lock this beast in the laundry room?” Terrence asked, nodding toward Rex. “He nearly knocked over my glass!”

      “Oh, hello there,” I said to a smallish young woman sipping nervously at a glass of wine. She had a very plain face, but even underneath her modest black maid’s uniform, I could see she had a pin-up girl, hour-glass body. “I’m Juliet.”

      “Hello, Juliet.” I turned my attention from the girl to Edward, who was standing in the corner near the bookshelf, and froze.

      “Glad to see you here,” he said slowly. He reshelved the book he’d been flipping through.

      All I could manage back was a slightly brusque, “Edward.”

      Thankfully, no one seemed to notice my temporary inability to speak.

      “I’ve got big plans and they involve you. Hey, your head’s bleeding.” He continued. I reached up and felt a small, wet trickle near my hairline. Edward pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. He cupped my chin in the palm of his large hand, and I could feel the roughness of his skin. He pressed the cloth to the side of my head. It hurt, but I didn’t want to tell him to stop, to lose contact. His breath was warm on my cheek, and I felt dizzy. Was it Edward or the wound? Suddenly aware that all eyes on the room were on me, I took the cloth, and pushed his hand away.

      “Oh, I guess I banged it when I wrecked my car just now.”

      “That’s a thrilling conversation starter,” Terrence interrupted, plopping down into a chair and slugging back half a glass of red wine. “One might think you’re Dorothy Parker! I’m all ears. Mind that you don’t blurt shocking remarks in the presence of our underbutler,

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