One Weekend with the Billionaire novel Chapter 66

Around 4:00, it occurs to me that I need to start fixing dinner. I have been in the pool. Floating around without a care has been helpful to my worried disposition, but as I get out, water dripping from my suit, and grab a towel to dry off, I think it is time to get dinner ready.

I sit down on a chair next to the pool as I realize I don’t have to worry about dinner. I won’t have to cook anything this evening. If I don’t want to, I’ll never have to cook anything again.

Before I got married to Jeff, I was not much of a cook. My mother tried to teach me what she knew when I was in high school, but she was not a natural cook either, and I didn’t exactly take to it. I remember the first meatloaf I ever made. It was charred on top and raw in the middle and absolutely disgusting.

Over the last two years, I have had to figure out how to make some of Jeff’s favorite dishes to his liking. Either that, or I would spend the night being yelled at, and that was never any fun. Jeff is a rather bland person who likes his food the same way as his personality. We had the same food over and over again for the most part. Which was good for me. Pork chops, meatloaf, roast, chicken breast, always with a side of potatoes and another vegetable. Sometimes we had rolls or biscuits if it was a meal where it was expected by Jeff. I would miss none of that mundane life.

I do slightly miss the pride I took in being the one to set a nice meal in front of my husband, though. Not that Braxton is my husband. But I am the woman of the house now, aren’t I? Shouldn’t I be responsible for setting a well-cooked meal on the table for my man?

I get up, wrap a towel around myself, and go into the house, deciding to go take a quick shower and get dressed before I wander to the kitchen to check with the chefs. I can smell something cooking as soon as I walk into the house, so I know something is already being prepared.

After a quick shower, I put on a nice outfit, one of the ones that Braxton has paid for. A white blouse and black slacks with a nice set of heels and some earrings look dressy enough that he will know I wanted to look nice for him without looking like I was trying too hard. I fix my makeup and put my hair in a French braid before I go down to the kitchen.

Whatever they are cooking, it smells divine, much better than anything I would’ve been able to prepare. The head chef, whose name escapes me at the moment, smiles at me. "Ms. Thompson! You don’t have to be in here," she says with a smile.