Babe, he’s a multimillionaire. You don’t have to pack. He can buy whatever you need once you get there
BROOKLYN
Exactly!
You guys, please. I really don’t think it’s travel.
I don’t want to go anywhere right now anyway. I’d prefer something more low-key
BROOKLYN
Booooo
CARINA
No souvenirs for us :(
Spoiler: He did not take me to the Cotswolds. Instead, he took me to…someone’s house?
“Is this a private residence?” I craned my head to take in all four stories of the redbrick behemoth before us. It was large enough to double as a hotel.
“Most days, yes. Today, it’s…something else,” Asher said.
“That’s not vague at all.”
“Sometimes, life is more fun when there’s a little mystery.” He laughed at my pout. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll explain everything soon enough.”
He knocked on the door. It opened two seconds later, revealing a tall, reedy man with silver hair and a perfectly pressed black suit. He looked like a butler straight out of central casting.
“Mr. Donovan, Ms. DuBois. Welcome.” He greeted us with a small bow. “I’m Mr. Harris, the head butler. Please, follow me.”
Head butler? Was there more than one?
The house's mystery deepened the further we walked. Asher said it was a private residence most days, but I didn’t see any personal effects. There were only miles of gleaming marble and original oil paintings hanging in gilded frames.
Our footsteps echoed in the massive halls. Otherwise, it was silent as a mausoleum. If it weren’t for Asher’s reassuring presence, I would’ve been thoroughly creeped out.
I thought Mr. Harris might lead us to the gardens or an indoor cinema, but we stopped at the kitchen instead.
“Enjoy.” He gave us another bow. “If you need anything, anything at all, please feel free to give me a ring on the intercom.”
With that, he retreated, leaving us in what might have been the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen. I wasn’t a culinary enthusiast, but even I was impressed by the setup. A massive kitchen island, professional-grade cookware, three stainless steel Sub-Zero fridges and acres of storage space…it was every chef’s dream.
An inordinately handsome man with dark brown hair and hazel eyes stood in the middle of the room. He wore black pants and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he oozed enough natural charm to make most women fall at his feet.
If I weren’t dating Asher, I probably would’ve succumbed at the sight of his forearms alone.
“Seb! I didn’t know you were in London.” Asher sounded surprised. “I thought Gerard was going to be our instructor.”
“He was, but ironically, he got food poisoning yesterday. Not from one of our restaurants, of course,” the man added. He clapped a hand on Asher’s shoulder in greeting before he turned to me. His smile dazzled as he held out his hand. “Sebastian Laurent.” His voice contained a smooth, light trace of France, evoking images of sun-dappled vineyards and walks along the Seine.
“Scarlett. DuBois,” I added as an afterthought. Were we introducing ourselves by our full names now?
“DuBois.” His brows rose an inch. “Any relation to Yves DuBois?”
I smiled. “He’s my great-uncle.”
My grandfather’s brother was a famous couturier. We didn’t talk much, but he occasionally sent me a dress sample out of the blue, which was enough to earn him a spot in my good graces forever. Yves DuBois gowns weren’t cheap.
“Sebastian is the chief marketing officer of the Laurent Restaurant Group,” Asher said. “This is his house.”
“Part-time house. I’m based in New York,” Sebastian explained. “When I’m not here, I change the residence to a venue for VIP brand events and activities such as what we’re doing today.”
I had an inkling, but I asked anyway. “Which is…?”
“A cooking class.” Asher’s eyes sparkled. “You love structure, and there’s nothing more structured than cooking. Look at any recipe. It’s literally a step-by-step guide.”
His reasoning was so unexpected yet so perfect that I couldn’t help but burst into laughter.
“Step by step with room for interpretation.” Sebastian smiled. “However, we’ll stick to the rules today since it’s your first time.”
He handed us aprons and gave us a brief spiel about the guidelines and agenda. We were learning how to cook a three-course meal consisting of a salad, main course, and dessert.
“Like Asher mentioned earlier, Gerard Brazier was supposed to be your instructor today, but alas.” Sebastian gave a quintessentially French shrug. “I hope you don’t mind if I take over. I’m not a Michelin-starred chef, but I did attend culinary school before business school. Family tradition,” he said when my eyebrows shot up. “Our business is food. If we want to sell it, we should know everything that goes into making it.”
“I don’t mind at all.” I tied the apron behind me. “Though this seems like something a CMO shouldn’t have to do on a Saturday afternoon.”
Sebastian’s mouth tilted into a smile. “I’ve followed Asher’s career since he was with Man U, so I’ve known him for a while. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make him suffer a little.”
