His Private Chef (by Amycee) novel Chapter 17

Chapter 17

I stirred the pancake batter one last time, pretending the air in the room hadn’t just shifted. Like Liam hadn’t gone quiet the second Mason’s name lit up my screen. Like he hadn’t stiffened and disappeared behind that carefully built wall of his.

We ate together anyway, side by side at the long kitchen island, with nothing but the soft clink of forks and the hum of silence stretching between us. It wasn’t angry silence. Just loaded. Awkward. Like we were both aware we’d crossed some line and weren’t sure if we wanted to step back or keep walking.

Afterward, I offered to clean, He didn’t

argue.

By the time I dried the last dish, the silence between us had calcified into something I didn’t know how to fix. So I said the safest thing I could.

“I think I’ll head upstairs for a bit.”

“Okay,” he replied without looking up.

And just like that, I was back in the guest room.

So much for friendship.

It felt like we’d taken one shaky step forward, only to fall back into that gray space where we pretended nothing mattered. As if pancakes and jokes and the warmth between us hadn’t happened.

I threw myself on the bed, sighing into the comforter.

The house was too quiet again. The rain is still tapping its nervous rhythm against the

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Chapter 17

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windows. I flipped onto my back and stared at the ceiling, boredom crawling over me like

ivy.

No phone service. No texts. No streaming.

Just my overactive brain and the ghost of that look in Liam’s eyes when he saw Mason’s

name.

I didn’t realize I’d drifted into a daze until I heard a knock at the door.

I sat up. “Yeah?”

When I opened it, Liam was standing there, one hand against the frame, the other stuffed in his pocket.

Except this time, he looked different. Relaxed. Maybe even playful.

“Just checking to make sure you’re still breathing,” he said. “You disappeared.”

I blinked. “I figured you wanted space.”

He shrugged. “We’re stuck in the same house. Space is a luxury we don’t have. Might as well keep each other company.”

I hesitated. “You sure? You were kind of ice–cold earlier.”

His brow arched with amusement. “Was I?”

“You tell me,” I said. “One minute we’re flipping pancakes, the next you’re acting like I poisoned your coffee.”

He gave a small, lopsided simle. “Just mood swings. Side effect of being held hostage by the

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weather.”

I studied him. He looked sincere enough. Still, it was jarring. This version of him. A little less guarded. A little more human.

He stepped back. “Come on. Let’s find a way to not die of boredom.”

I followed him back to the living room. The rain outside had turned steady, sheets of water cascading down the glass like liquid curtains.

We sat on opposite ends of the couch again.

No movie. No phones. Just the storm outside and the unspoken question: Now what?

“You any good at games?” Liam asked suddenly.

“Define good.”

“I was thinking of something simple. Truth or dare. Or maybe twenty questions.”

I raised a brow. “What are we, teenagers?”

“Better than watching the paint peel.”

I sighed. “Fine. You go first.”

He leaned back into the couch cushions. “Okay. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever cooked?”

I laughed. “Frog Legs. In France. Long story.”

He winced. “Gross. Okay, your turn.”

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Chapter 17

“What do you actually do, Liam? Besides intimidate staff and wear tailored suits?”

He smirked. “I manage investments. Build portfolios. IT. Destroy overpriced contracts. Occasionally fire someone who deserves it.‘

“Wow. Sound like so much fun.”

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“You’re mocking me.‘

“Maybe a little.”

We went back and forth, each answer peeling back a layer neither of us realized we’d been hiding. Somewhere in between “favorite pizza topping” and “worst childhood haircut,” we started laughing more than we were questioning.

Then everything went dark.

The power cut out with a sudden, breathless snap.

The TV screen blacked. The fridge gave a dying whir. Even the lights flickered once before surrendering.

A beat of silence.

Then the rain outside howled.

“Seriously?” I muttered. “Now?”

Liam was already moving, calm and unbothered as he grabbed a small flashlight from a drawer and lit a candle from the dining table centerpiece.

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Chapter 17

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“They said on the news earlier this was all thanks to Tropical Storm Delilah,” he said, placing the candle on the coffee table. “Remnant moisture rolling in from Baja. Flash flood warnings, power outages, whole deal.”

“In summer?”

He nodded. “Apparently the last time something like this hit LA this hard was back in ’97.”

I pulled my knees up under my chin. “Figures. I pick the one summer LA gets biblical weather.”

“You okay?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Storms freak me out.”

His voice softened. “Why?”

I looked down. “The night my dad died, it rained like this. We left New York right after. Mom said it hardly ever rain. In LA. Guess she was wrong.”

There was a pause. Then I felt him shift closer.

He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. It was cautious, like he wasn’t sure I’d allow it. Then it settled, solid and warm.

I didn’t resist.

I leaned in, letting my head rest against his chest.

His heartbeat was calm. Measured. Like a steady rhythm against the storm.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

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Chapter 17

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“It was a long time ago,” I murmured. “But storms still get in my head.”

He started talking. Nothing heavy. Just small things. Silly things. Bad jokes and worse impressions. Something about two employees caught locking lips mid–conference call.

I laughed. Loud, shameless and maybe a little too hard.

The kind of laugh that sneaks up on you. Uninvited. Uncontrolled. And desperately needed.

He looked pleased with himself.

“You’re not half bad at cheering people up,” I said.

“Shhh, don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

Somehow, we ended up playing Truth or Dare. Because what else do you do in a blackout?

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