His Private Chef (by Amycee) novel Chapter 9

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The knock startled me awake. Disoriented, I sat up in bed, squinting at the dim light filtering through my blinds. My mouth was dry, my limbs heavy.

It took me a second to remember where I was.

Home.

After everything that happened at Liam’s place yesterday, I had come home, turned my phone off, and dropped into bed like the world didn’t exist. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to scream. I didn’t want to feel anything.

The knocking came again, louder this time.

“Emily! Open up before I drag you out in your pajamas!”

That voice. Familiar. Dramatic.

Jay??

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I dragged myself out of the bed and walked barefoot to the door, tugging my robe tighter around my waist. When I opened it, Jay was standing there in all glory. Messy hair, sunglasses on, despite it barely being morning and two coffees in hand like he was saving the

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Chapter 9

day.

“Good morning, Vixen.”

I blinked. “What are you doing here?”

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You disappeared off the face of the earth. Phone dead. No replies. So I thought I’d swung by and check on you,” he said, raising an eyebrow “Now get ready, we’ve got work”

I stared at him, confused. “What work?”

“The shoot?” he said, as if it were obvious. “The one you agreed to? You, me, and a bunch of lights, cameras, and vibes?”

Oh. Right.

His new music video.

The one he tricked me into saying yes to. Now, today of all days, it was happening.

I groaned. “Jay, I’m not in the mood.”

“Exactly why I came in person.” His grin softened a little. “I

figured something was off when your phone was off. Now go shower and wear something nice.”

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He shoved a coffee into my hand and walked into the apartment like he owned the place.

I sighed. So much for sulking.

Before I could protest again, he was already sprawled on the living room couch. “You’ve got twenty minutes,” he said, smirking. “Chop chop.”

The rooftop set was pure L.A. chaos.

Dancers in mesh tops and silver boots rehearsed near a glitter–wrapped sports car. A camera rig hovered midair like a robotic crane. Smoke machines puffed clouds into the sky while a stylist shrieked at some over a missing accessory like it was the end of the world.

Jay thrived in the mess.

He greeted crew members with handshakes and hugs like he was the city’s mayor, even pausing to pose for selfies. Meanwhile, they dressed me in a strappy black outfit and boots that made me nearly six feet tall.

As the cameras rolled and Jay lip–synced his lyrics in front of a convertible, I tried my best to channel confidence. The director barked cues. Backup dancers spun and flipped like it was an Olympic trial. Every now and then, someone shouted “touch–up!” and I was pulled aside to reapply lipstick or powder.

I moved when they told me to. Smiled when the camera hovered near. But the spark wasn’t there. Not really.

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Someone noticed.

“Thought I’d find you here,” came a voice behind me.

I turned and there he was Mason.

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Sunglasses, hoodie, and that calm grin. Casual, effortless, and somehow still impossibly handsome.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said.

“I wasn’t. Jay texted me. He said you looked like your soul had left the building.”

I chuckled, faintly. “I’m fine.”

He studied me for a second, then offered his hand. “Wanna get out of here?”

“What?” I hesitated, “You just got here.”

“No cameras. No rooftop theatrics. Just a place I think you’d like.”

I raised an eyebrow.

Jay caught my eye from across the set, gave me a wink and a thumbs–up like a proud dad. That look on his face? He definitely had something up his sleeve.

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“Fine,” I sighed. “But if this turns out to be some creepy Hollywood thing. I’m fighting you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

The drive was quiet. Not awkward. Just peaceful. Mason didn’t press for answers, and I was grateful.

We drove out of the city into the hills, winding roads flanked by trees and cliffs. Eventually, he parked beside a hidden path, and we hiked the rest of the way on foot.

The view that met me at the top stole my breath.

The skyline stretched endlessly beneath us. Los Angeles. Distant, golden, and almost small from up here. The air was still, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves.

“I come here when I need to scream,” Mason said, sitting on a flat rock and stretching his legs. “Sometimes I actually do scream.

I sat beside him. “Seriously?”

“Not always out loud. But sometimes yeah.”

I laughed, softly.

We sat in silence for a moment, the breeze tugging at strands of my hair. It was peaceful.

And real.

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“Do you ever regret it?” I asked quietly. “Being famous?”

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He took a while to answer.

:.

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“Some days I do. Most days I don’t. But the hardest part is knowing everyone thinks they know you. Even when they don’t.”

I turned to look at him.

He looked away, jaw tight. “There’s a version of me out there I don’t even recognize. Magazine covers. Rumors. Comments. It’s like… they take pieces of you and build a version you don’t even recognize.”

He took a long deep breath.

“I’ve read things about myself that made me question who I even am.”

I swallowed. “That sounds awful.”

“It is. Sometimes.”

A long silence passed between us.

Then he smiled faintly. “But right now? Sitting here with you? Not so much.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I offered a soft smile.

I looked out at the horizon, the sky painted in oranges and purples.

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