His Private Chef (by Amycee) novel Chapter 27

Chapter 27

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eyes

After I walked away from Liam on the rooftop, I didn’t look back. But God, I felt his burning holes into my back until the elevator doors closed. The music, the lights, the people, they all blurred into static noise. Inside, I was a tangled mess of want, fury, and confusion.

I didn’t even notice when Liam left the party.

Somehow, in the chaos of the night, Jay, Sophia, and I ended up at a club downtown. It wasn’t planned. One second we were in the ballroom, the next, we were spilling out of a black SUV, laughing like lunatics and high on champagne.

The club pulsed with neon lights and heavy bass. Jay was already dragging me to the dance floor before I could take in the place. Sophia ordered shots like she owned the bar.

We danced. We sang. We acted like heartbreak and jealousy didn’t exist.

But I wasn’t okay. Not even close.

Even through the haze of tequila, I kept replaying Liam’s words, his touch, his voice saying things no man had ever dared say to me before. It was like he’d reached inside my head, found every forbidden thought I tried to bury, and whispered them back to me in the most dangerous voice imaginable.

Eventually, I hit my limit. The room tilted, my knees gave out, and the world blurred around

1. me.

I vaguely remember someone lifting me, arms strong and familiar.

Liam.

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Chapter 27

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He didn’t say anything. He just carried me out like I weighed nothing, like it wasn’t a big deal that I was clinging to his shirt and whispering his name in half–baked sentences.

Back at the house, Jay passed out on the velvet couch the moment his head hit the cushions. Sophia, giggling and humming some Taylor Swift song, disappeared into her room.

Me?

I tried to make it to the guest room. I really did. But my balance had a different plan. I nearly fell over my heels until Liam caught me again.

“You’re going to break something,” he muttered, slipping one arm under my legs, the other around my back, and lifting me bridal style.

“I was just…going to bed,” I slurred, smiling up at him, half–delirious.

He didn’t smile back. His jaw was tight. His eyes unreadable.

In the hallway, just outside the guest room, I did something incredibly stupid.

I leaned up and kissed him. Soft. Hesitant. Just a brush.

But it ignited something in both of us.

His hands tightened around me. My heart pounded. His lips hovered over mine, just long enough to make me forget how to breathe.

Then he pulled away like he’d been electrocuted.

“Don’t,” he said, voice rough. “Not like this.”

“Why not?” I whispered.

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He shook his head. “Because you’re drunk, Emily. And trust me, I want this more than know. But I won’t touch you unless you’re sober enough to mean it.”

you

Tears stung my eyes for reasons I don’t understand. Maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was him saying no when part of me wanted him to, and part of me didn’t.

He opened the guest room door and gently laid me on the bed.

“Sleep it off,” he said, brushing hair from my face.

I didn’t know when he left. I only knew I woke up the next morning wrapped in a blanket, head pounding, mascara smudged, and shame clinging to me like a second skin.

Groaning, I stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. Cold water, mouthwash, and twenty minutes later, I emerged somewhat human.

Downstairs, I followed the smell of something divine. Eggs. Coffee. Toast.

In the kitchen, Sophia was perched on a stool in a silk robe, sipping orange juice like she hadn’t downed ten shots last night.

“You look like you kissed a truck,” she said cheerfully.

“I feel like I did more than that,” I mumbled.

Jay grunted from the couch, a pillow over his head.

Sophia patted the seat next to her. “Come join the land of the living.”

I sat, carefully, my skull still echoing the aftermath of too many shots.

The moment I picked up a piece of toast, her phone buzzed.

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“Oh, perfect timing,” she said, answering the call. “Hi, Mommy!”

Oh no.

I started to slide off the stool, but Sophia reached out and grabbed my arm.

“Don’t move. She wants to say hi.”

“What? No, I..”

“Emily’s here,” Sophia chirped, turning the screen to me.

Mrs. Black.

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The woman was stunning. Elegant and radiant even over FaceTime. Her dark curls were pinned back, her smile wide and warm.

“Emily! I’ve heard so much about you. It’s lovely to finally see the face behind the name.

“Hi, Mrs. Black,” I said awkwardly, brushing imaginary lint off my shirt. “It’s nice to meet

you too.”

“Please, call me Laura. You really are such a beautiful girl. Soph, I get it now.”

She laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that made you want to be in on the joke.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

Sophia winked at me. “Told you she was cool.”

They went on to talk about how Sophia’s parents‘ vacation was going, how her birthday party turned out. Typical mother and daughter catch–up chatter, light and familiar.

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