Millionaire Seeks A Personal Chef, Not Realizing The Woman Applying Will Soon Capture His Heart
The Flour-Dusted Resume
Nicolette Cain stepped into the towering glass building, her resume clutched tightly in her flower-dusted hand. She was completely unaware that the man she was about to meet—the one who placed the ad for a personal chef—was millionaire Oliver Grant.
He was the same man whose face had graced the cover of Forbes last month. The lobby was sleek, cold, and intimidating, just like the voice of the assistant who greeted her.
“You’re here for the chef position?” she asked, barely glancing up from her tablet.
Nicolette nodded. “Yes, Nicolette Cain.”
The assistant looked her over, eyebrows slightly raised at Nicolette’s worn canvas shoes and faded jeans.
“Mr. Grant is expecting you. Top floor.”
The elevator ride felt like forever. Nicolette had no clue why a millionaire would be hiring a live-in personal chef through such an outdated listing. She had found it tucked between ads for dog walkers and house sitters.
The only requirement was: “Must cook like your life depends on it.” She had laughed when she read it, but she needed this job badly after her bakery in Brooklyn went under and her dad’s hospital bills started piling up.
She couldn’t afford to be picky. When the elevator doors opened, she stepped into a hallway that led to a pair of massive black double doors. Before she could knock, one of them opened and there he was.
He was taller than she expected, with a sharp jaw and blue eyes that looked like they’d seen too much success to care about anything else. He wore a tailored navy shirt rolled at the sleeves.
He held a coffee mug with the kind of ease that said he owned everything in sight.
“You’re Nicolette?” he asked, his gaze flicking to her hands.
“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “I know I don’t exactly scream fine dining, but I’m good. Really good.”
Oliver tilted his head. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Then lower your expectations,” she said before she could stop herself.
His brow lifted, amused. “Come in.”
The penthouse was ridiculous, with floor-to-ceiling windows and art she was too broke to recognize. The kitchen looked like it had never been used.
“You live here alone?” she asked, setting her bag down by the island.
He nodded. “I travel a lot, but when I’m in the city, I like to eat in.”
“Do you cook?”
He gave a short laugh. “I set a toaster on fire last week. I need someone who can handle three meals a day. Fresh. No shortcuts.”
“I’m not interested in someone who reheats frozen lasagna.”
“Well,” she said, “unless you want to die of sodium overload, I think I’m your girl.”
He watched her for a beat, then gestured to the fridge. “Make me something. Anything.”
She blinked. “Now?”
“Unless you’re scared.”
Nicolette tossed her jacket on a stool and rolled up her sleeves. “Challenge accepted.”
In less than 30 minutes, she whipped up a plate of lemon butter salmon with roasted garlic asparagus and seared potatoes. It was simple and fresh, but layered with flavor.
She slid the plate in front of him and crossed her arms. Oliver took one bite and actually stopped chewing. She waited.
“Damn,” he said finally. “Fine. You’re hired. Start tomorrow.”
“Just like that?”
“I’m a busy man. You can cook. That’s what I need.”
“And you? Are you always this charming?”
He looked at her again, something unreadable in his expression. “Only on Sundays.”
