The Bucket List

4.2 The Warning

I spend the next hour touring every inch of the palatial beach house with Rochelle. Or Michelle. Michaela? I really am terrible with names.

Her quiet disposition puts me at ease as we drift through each of the three guest bedrooms, their extravagance second only to the master suite on the third floor. The guest baths are roughly the size of my apartment, which fills me with equal parts horror and delight. I'm not sure which one wins out, but it must amuse my tour guide, because she can't stop smiling. And I can't stop staring.

Apparently, this vacation home pales in comparison to the Ivanov Estate in Moscow. "And of course, their condominium in Japan is breathtaking," she adds.

Oh. Of course.

We return downstairs. The monochromatic kitchen is a triumph of the modern age, outfitted with an array of stainless steel appliances and a seemingly endless stretch of counterspace. It's also bustling with unexpected activity. An imposing woman dressed in the starch white of a chef's uniform barks out orders to a miniature army of men and women.

I blanch at the sight of so many new faces.

"Michelle." The intimidating one doesn't even look my way.

Michelle. I commit the name to memory as my tour guide greets the other woman. "Chef Dumont."

The chef finally turns her critical eye in my direction. Her grey hair is swept back in a low bun, emphasizing her severe features. "What?"

"This is Amara Rossi." Michelle glances down at the tablet she carried with her for the duration of our tour. "She'll be assisting—"

"Yes, yes." The chef waves a hand. "Get out."

"Felice," Michelle scolds. The chef narrows her eyes.

"I can leave," I offer, hopeful.

"Yes," Chef Dumont agrees. At the same time, Michelle shakes her head and says, "Not before you eat."

I'm not sure I've ever been less hungry. I try and fail to muster a smile.

Michelle places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Let me know if you have any questions."

She leaves me then, her heels smacking against the marble as she struts over to one of the sweeping windows. I crane my neck to get a better look at the pool beyond said window when a ruffled sigh pulls my attention back to the chef.

"Well, girl. Speak up," she commands. "Do you have any food intolerances?"

"Oh." I hold up my hands. "No. Really. I'm fi—"

"Cannoli." She grabs a plate from the hands of one of her underlyings and shoves it across the grey countertop.

"Right," I mumble. More so out of terror than anything else, I stuff one of the pastires in my mouth. "Thank—"

Holy shit.

Chef Dumont chuckles at my wide-eyed expression, surprising us both. "Good?" She sounds pleased.

Rendered speechless, I nod.

She grunts and crosses her arms. Her eyes track the flurry of activity around us. Can she really make order out of all this chaos?

She inclines her head. "You're the assistant?"

I swallow down the rest of the cannoli. "Yes. What is all this?" I gesture to the room at large.

"A kitchen." I stare at her and she cackles. "You should really be more specific, girl."

I pop another pastry in my mouth. "What's all the rush for?" I ask, the words muffled.