Elliot Voss woke to the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen, a sound so foreign in his penthouse it might as well have been an alien invasion.
He blinked at the ceiling, the morning light filtering through the blinds of his cavernous bedroom.
The clock on his nightstand read 6:45 AM. Early, even for him.
But sleep had been elusive, his mind tangled with thoughts of a certain maid with hazel eyes and a laugh that felt like sunlight.
He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.
Lila Harper was a problem.
Not because she'd spilled coffee on him—though his dry cleaner had sent a pointed email about the shirt—but because she'd slipped under his skin.
One conversation, one bite of her damn focaccia, and he was acting like a teenager with a crush.
He didn't do crushes.
He didn't do feelings.
Not since Cassandra had gutted him three years ago, leaving him with a broken engagement and a vow to keep his heart on lockdown.
Yet here he was, asking Mrs. Delaney to have Lila handle breakfast.
A stupid move, born of impulse.
He'd told himself it was practical—she'd mentioned her culinary dreams, so why not see what she could do? But the truth was messier.
He wanted to see her.
To hear her tease him again, to watch her move through his kitchen like it was hers.
He rolled out of bed, trading his sweatpants for a crisp white shirt and charcoal slacks. No suit today—it was Saturday, and even billionaires got a day off. Sort of.
His phone was already buzzing with notifications: a board member's email, a reminder about tonight's charity gala, a text from Cassandra that he deleted without reading.
He tossed the phone onto the bed and headed for the kitchen.
The scent hit him first—freshly brewed coffee, something buttery, and a hint of cinnamon.
His stomach growled as he pushed open the door.
Lila stood at the counter, her back to him, whisking something in a bowl with the kind of focus he usually saw in his coders during a crunch.
Her navy uniform was gone, replaced by jeans and a fitted green sweater that hugged her curves.
Her hair was loose, dark curls spilling over her shoulders.
For a moment, he forgot how to speak.
"Morning, Mr.—uh, Elliot," she said, turning as if she'd sensed him.
Her cheeks flushed, but her smile was steady, if a little nervous.
"I hope you're hungry. I might've gone overboard."
He glanced at the counter, where a spread was taking shape: golden pancakes stacked on a plate, a bowl of sliced strawberries, a pitcher of fresh orange juice, and what looked like scrambled eggs flecked with herbs.
It was more food than he'd eaten in a week. "Overboard?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "This looks like a brunch buffet for ten."
She laughed, the sound bright and unguarded.
"Blame Mrs. Delaney. She said you barely eat breakfast, so I figured I'd make it hard to skip."
She slid a plate toward him, a pancake topped with a perfect swirl of whipped cream.
"Sit. Try it. I promise I won't spill anything on you this time."
He smirked, pulling out a stool at the island. "I'm holding you to that."
He took a bite of the pancake, and it was like biting into a cloud—fluffy, sweet, with a hint of vanilla that made him pause.
"Jesus, Lila. You made this from scratch?""Yup."
She leaned against the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
"Family recipe, tweaked a bit. The secret's in the buttermilk. Don't ask for the details—I guard my recipes like state secrets."
He chuckled, taking another bite.
"Noted. Though I could probably bribe you with a private jet."
Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Tempting, but I'd rather have a new mixer. Mine's older than me and sounds like a dying lawnmower."
"Deal," he said, surprising himself.
"One mixer for the recipe."
She froze, her smile faltering.
"Wait, you're joking, right? I didn't mean—"
"Relax," he said, holding up a hand. "I'm not buying you a mixer. Yet."
He winked, and her blush deepened, spreading to the tips of her ears.
He liked that too much.
Far too much.
The kitchen door swung open, and Mrs. Delaney bustled in, her silver hair pulled into a tight bun.
"Good heavens, Lila, it smells like a bakery in here!"
She stopped, eyeing the spread with approval.
"Mr. Voss, I hope you're appreciating this. The girl's a wizard with a whisk."
"I'm appreciating," Elliot said, his gaze flicking to Lila.
She looked away, busying herself with the coffee pot.
Mrs. Delaney shot him a knowing look, one he pretended not to notice.
The older woman had been with him for years, and her knack for reading people was unnerving.
"Lila, you're off after this, yes?"
Mrs. Delaney said, checking her watch.
"I'll handle the cleanup. You've got that culinary school thing today, don't you?"
Lila's face lit up, then dimmed just as fast. "Yeah, my interview. Two o'clock."
She glanced at Elliot, then away.
"It's just a preliminary thing. No big deal."
"It's a big deal," Elliot said, setting down his fork.
"Which school?"She hesitated, like she wasn't sure she wanted him to know.
"The Culinary Institute. They've got a campus upstate. I'm applying for their baking and pastry program."
He nodded, impressed.
The Culinary Institute was no joke—competitive, expensive, and a ticket to the kind of career she clearly deserved.
"You'll kill it," he said, meaning it.
"They'd be idiots not to take you."Her lips parted, surprise softening her features. "Thanks," she said quietly.
"I just… I need to nail this interview. It's my shot."
Mrs. Delaney patted her arm.
"You will, dear. Now, pour me some of that coffee before I keel over."
Lila laughed, filling a mug as Mrs. Delaney launched into a story about a disastrous dinner party Elliot had hosted last year.
He half-listened, his attention on Lila.
The way she moved, confident but not showy, the way her fingers tucked a curl behind her ear—it was distracting.
He was supposed to be prepping for the gala, not noticing how her sweater brought out the green flecks in her eyes.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, shattering the moment.
He pulled it out, frowning at the screen.
A text from Cassandra: We need to talk before the gala. I'll be at your place by noon. Don't avoid me.
His jaw tightened. Cassandra Leigh, his ex-fiancée, had a knack for showing up when he least wanted her.
She'd been circling lately, all charm and sharp edges, hinting at a reconciliation he had no interest in.
"Everything okay?" Lila asked, her voice pulling him back.
She was watching him, a crease between her brows.
"Yeah," he lied, pocketing the phone.
"Just work."
He didn't know why he didn't tell her the truth.
Maybe because saying Cassandra's name in this kitchen, with Lila's pancakes and her warm smile, felt like letting a storm into a sunny day.Mrs. Delaney excused herself to check the linens, leaving them alone.
The air shifted, charged with something unspoken.
Lila started clearing plates, her movements quick, like she was nervous.
"So," she said, not looking at him.
"Big plans for the weekend? Fancy billionaire stuff?"
He leaned back, amused.
"If by 'fancy' you mean a charity gala where I smile for photos and dodge people asking for favors, then yeah."
"Sounds glamorous," she said, rinsing a plate.
"You gonna wear another shirt I can ruin?"
He laughed, the sound looser than he'd expected.
"I'll keep you away from the coffee pot, just in case."
She turned, her hands dripping with suds, and grinned.
"Smart man." Then her expression softened, like she was debating something. "Thanks for… you know, not firing me yesterday.
And for eating my focaccia.
It was nice."
"Nice?" He tilted his head, teasing.
"I think 'life-changing' is the word you're looking for."
Her laugh was like a spark, bright and fleeting.
"Don't get cocky, Elliot.
Next time, I'm charging you for the bread."
"Name your price," he said, and the words came out lower, more serious than he'd meant.
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the kitchen felt too small, the distance between them too short.
He could've reached out, brushed the soap bubble from her wrist.
He didn't.
The doorbell chimed, a sharp intrusion. Lila flinched, breaking the moment.
"That's probably Mrs. Delaney's delivery," she said, drying her hands.
"I'll get it."
"No, I've got it," he said, standing. He needed to move, to shake off whatever this was.
But as he headed for the door, he couldn't ignore the way his pulse was racing—not from the gala, or Cassandra, or the merger. From her.
He opened the door, expecting a delivery guy.
Instead, Cassandra stood there, her blonde hair perfect, her designer dress screaming money.
Her red lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Elliot," she purred, stepping inside without an invitation.
"We need to talk.
"Behind him, he heard Lila's footsteps pause in the kitchen.
He didn't turn around, but he felt her presence like a tether, pulling him back even as Cassandra's perfume filled the air. Trouble had just walked in, and it wasn't the kind that tasted like pancakes.