Chapter 2
I let out a sigh of relief, but the very next second, Kyle added, "But I have a condition of my own.
"While you're working for me, all of your time is mine. Every second."
"Wait, all of my time?" I frowned.
"Mr. Walsh, you're hiring a cook, not buying a person," I shot back.
A low, humorless chuckle escaped him.
"Don't misinterpret. I have no interest in your person," he said.
He gave me a once-over, his eyes lingering on my belly for a couple of seconds. The look in his eyes wasn't just cold. It was pure distaste.
"I simply need my chef on call. My schedule is unpredictable," he added.
It sounded logical. Perfectly reasonable. So why did it feel like a trap?
I had no choice, though.
"Fine, I agree," I said.
A temp employment contract landed in front of me in no time.
His efficiency was terrifying.
I scanned the pages. Then I saw it—a clause about "complying with employer-recommended health and wellness protocols, including dietary guidelines and daily routine adjustments."
My eye twitched. He actually put "weight management" in the contract.
I signed my name, smirking to myself. A contract is just paper. I'm the one living in this body. When it came down to it, I'd do what I thought was right.
Just like that, my farm stay became the temporary HQ for the Walsh Holdings team.
And I became Kyle's personal chef.
*****
Day one, and he made sure I understood exactly who was in charge.
At seven a.m. sharp, someone knocked on my door.
It was Patrick Fisher, Kyle's assistant.
"Ms. Rivers, Mr. Walsh wants his Blue Mountain coffee, extra sweet—70% sugar—and it must be served at exactly 185°F," Patrick said.
At noon, he told me, "Ms. Rivers, Mr. Walsh wants Beef Wellington, cooked medium-rare. Please ensure there are no carrots in the side dishes."
At seven p.m., he came again.
"Ms. Rivers, Mr. Walsh would like a creamy fish chowder for dinner. The fish must be completely free of bones, without exception. The potatoes should be soft but still hold their shape," he said.
I spent the entire day spinning around the kitchen like a top.
After I finally finished serving Kyle, Linda strutted into his room with a bowl of truffle soup, swaying her hips like she owned the place.
My back ached with a deep, exhausted pain. I leaned against the wall as I made my way back to my room. I decided that as soon as this week was over, I was packing up and getting the hell out of there—away from this nightmare for good.
The next day, Linda was determined to make my life hell.
I was busy making soup for Kyle when she strutted in, her high heels clicking across the floor. She pretended to bump into me, acting all innocent like it was just an accident.
At that moment, she upended an entire packet of salt straight into the simmering pot.
"Oops, sorry, Ms. Rivers. My hand slipped," she said, her voice dripping with fake innocence.
I gave her a blank stare, quietly poured out the ruined soup, then picked up an identical pot of soup I'd already made from the stove next to it.
Linda's smug look vanished instantly.
"You..." she sputtered, completely thrown off.
"I always prepare a backup, just in case," I said coolly.
I walked past her with the pot, tossing out lightly. "If you're going to scheme, you should be more observant."
Her face turned green with rage.
In the dining room, Kyle looked at the soup I brought over, picked up his spoon, and took a sip.
That familiar taste made his brows furrow again.
He set down his spoon, looked up, and his eyes fixed on me, intense and unblinking.
His voice was low, edged with suspicion. "Have we met before?"
My heart skipped a beat.
I swallowed the panic rising in my chest and flashed a perfect smile.
I said, keeping my tone light, "You flatter me, Mr. Walsh.
"And while that's a bit of a classic line, I'll let it slide because you're charming."
"But honestly, someone like you, born with a silver spoon, would never know a farm girl like me. Pretty sure you've got the wrong person," I added, playing it cool.
He watched me, his gaze searching for a crack in the act.
After a moment, he looked away and picked up his spoon again.
"Maybe," he said, his tone noncommittal.
Kyle's "health management" plan kicked off on my third day of work.
Patrick handed me a sheet of A4 paper, crammed full of a "nutritional guideline" and a "workout schedule" just for me.
Breakfast: One cup of skim milk and two slices of whole wheat toast.
Lunch: 3.5 ounces of steamed chicken breast with a side of steamed broccoli.
Dinner: Grilled chicken salad (no dressing).
Workout: Run three miles and swim for an hour every day.
I stared at the sheet and couldn't help but laugh. Was he serious? I was pissed and amused at the same time.
This wasn't a meal plan. It was a starvation diet for a rabbit.
Run and swim? Did he want to put me and this baby in the hospital?
I just tossed that paper straight into the trash.
My baby needed real food. Screw his health management plan.
I ate three full meals plus snacks daily—hearty stews, roasted chicken, whatever I craved. I was nourished, rested, and glowing.
Kyle's face got darker and darker every single day.
Finally, on the evening of the fifth day, he blocked my way.
"Why aren't you following the plan?" He loomed over me, his tone as cold as ice.
"What plan?" I shot back, acting clueless.
"Hazel Rivers!" he snapped, using my full name. Yeah, he was pissed. "Are you just gonna stay fat forever or what?
"Look at you. There is nothing appealing about your current state."