Venice Nights (His Submissive #4.5)(13)
Author: Ava Claire

I frowned, dropping my hand back to my side gingerly. I guess it was better than being known as a guest, but it still surprised me that she knew my full name.

“Jacob told you about me?”

She let out a giggle, scooping her side swept bang behind her ear. “No. You’re a celebrity.”

“A celebrity?” I repeated, shaking my head. “Jacob’s the celebrity. If I’m a celebrity, it’s purely by association…” I trailed off when she moved past me. Her eyes scanned the room, stopping when she turned to the cart beside the fridge.

She picked up her cell and swiped a finger across the screen, illuminating it, then holding it up for me to see.

I felt sick all over again. Front and center was a picture of me standing in the living room of Jacob’s villa, moments before I snapped the blinds shut. Beneath the picture in big, block letters was, “Who is Leila Montgomery?”

“I recognized the shutters,” Blanka said brightly, her face beaming with pride. “Well, that and Mr. Whitmore’s name.”

She looked back and forth between her screen and my face, probably comparing and contrasting the nearly identical deer-in-headlights expression. After she had completed the analysis, she reached out, touching one of my stray chocolate brown tendrils.

“Your hair is curlier in person.” She pondered that fact for a moment, her smile unwavering. “I like it!”

I let out a weak chuckle and a half-hearted thank you, looking past her to the spread on the island. I needed to change the subject before I started hyperventilating. The countertop was lined with glass mixing bowls filled with assortments of food: flour, eggs, and a kaleidoscope of berries. “This is quite impressive.”

“Mr. Whitmore requested breakfast in bed,” she explained.

I sighed, deflated. “I guess great minds think alike.”

She cocked her head to the side, her blonde braid spilling over her shoulder. “You were going to make breakfast?”

I nodded ruefully. “I really wanted to do something special and surprise him.”

Her whole demeanor changed as she backed up, hands out in a gesture of submission. “I’m sorry, I just do what he says..”

“Oh, I’m not upset,” I said, trying to calm her fears. My efforts were obviously ineffective because she looked ready to drop to her knees and beg for my forgiveness. My heart went out to her when I saw the genuine fear that drained all color from her face. “Blanka, really, it’s fine.”

She did not look wholly convinced. “I really need this job. I’m a student and my mother back home doesn’t work, so I send her part of my check.” She dropped her chin to her chest. Her breathing was elevated, nearly giving me heart palpitations.

I put both hands on her shoulders. “It’s really all right. I promise.”

She peered at me skeptically, like she was sure this was some trick. The worry that darkened her previously cheery features made me feel guilty, even though I knew that her fear was rooted in experiences that had nothing to do with me. What guests had Jacob brought here that bullied this poor girl? Had they threatened her job? Jacob could not have believed any of the made-up offenses. Anyone that had a conversation with Blanka, or even looked at the Taylor Swift-humming girl could clearly she meant no harm.

I gestured at the ingredients in front of me, trying to alleviate the suffocating tension that hung in the air. “Why don’t I give you a hand with this?”

She went even paler. “But Isa—”

“I won’t take no for an answer. And I won’t steal your thunder.” I said lightly. I stepped around her to the sink and washed and dried my hands, turning my attention back to breakfast. “I’m about 99.9% sure you can make better eggs than me, but I’m pretty good at following instructions.”

A smile danced in her eyes, but she was still hesitant. “That really isn’t necessary, Miss Montgomery.”

“Call me Leila,” I corrected gently. To prove I was serious about helping, I opened the egg carton. “Are we scrambling or doing one of those folding egg thingies?”

“Folding egg thingies?” Her hesitation melted into confusion as she repeated it to herself, and I bit my lip to hold back a laugh. “You mean an omelet?”

“Oh yeah,” I nodded, like it was coming back to me. “One of those.”

“I think you better listen to my instructions very carefully,” she giggled. “If Francois found out that someone was cooking in his kitchen that called an omelet a folding egg thingy he’d probably lose it.” She pointed at the eggs, then the milk, and salt and pepper. “Can you whisk eight eggs in the glass bowl with one cup of milk and a pinch of salt and pepper?”

“I sure can!” I cracked the eggs, miraculously keeping the shell fragments out of the egg mixture, then poured in the milk. I reached for the salt and pepper. “So you’re a student? What are you studying?”

She sprinkled flour over the counter. “Fashion.”

“Milan, here you come?” I said with a smile.

She stole a glance at me, like she almost thought I was poking fun, but when she saw I was being genuine, the bright and bubbly girl I met returned. “New York too. It’s my dream to see the world then go back home and open a boutique.” She paused for a moment, then gathered up the ball of dough and dropped it on the floured surface, kneading it with strong thrusts that surprised me given her slight frame. “My mother was an artist, but her work never left the walls of our living room. I won’t let that happen to me.”

I had only just met her, but there was something powerfully genuine about her. I had a feeling that she had the drive and talent to make every dream come true.

“Someday, celebrities will be clamoring to wear Blanka.” Her eyes shot to me then she flattened the ball of dough into a disc. “Maybe someday you would wear my dresses?”

I had not seen a single sketch, but I knew if her dresses were anything like her personality, I would shine the brightest in the room. “I’d love to! Honestly, I’m not sure how much capital Leila Montgomery wearing your clothing will bring. A month from now, I’m sure no one will remember my name.”

She grabbed a pizza cutter and sliced the flat disc into equal sections. “You might not be first page news, but you are like Cinderella. No one will forget that the billionaire fell in love with someone so—”

“Ordinary?” I offered, trying to disguise my hurt with a tight smile.