Page 29 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

***

Sometimes, I wonder how Elena handles Vaughn’s mansion all by herself. From what I see in movies, owners of mansions like this employ the maid, the cook, and the butler as separate people. I would take as many leaves as I could if I were in her place as well.

I hum a tune under my breath as I prepare a dish of Bronx-style chicken Parmesan. It turns out that Vaughn wants me tocook dinner for a family gathering since his people are coming to visit. Elena will be gone for three days—something to do with her mother being sick.

I pause and tug at the overly tight apron strings just before pouring some melted mozzarella over the fried chicken. When everything’s all set, I place the food on the tray and take it to the vast dining room.

It appears like a heated conversation is abruptly stopped when I am seen approaching, judging from the not-so-happy faces and the tense atmosphere in the dining room. Without thinking much about it—because, obviously, it’s none of my business—I set the tray on the table and begin unpacking.

Vaughn is drumming his fingers repeatedly on a spot on the wide walnut table. It doesn’t take long to realize that he is troubled. There’s a certain way his right eyelid droops slightly when he’s tense.

“Enjoy your meal, Mrs. Graham,” I say, turning to Vaughn’s mother. She forces a smile in my direction, making her eyes wrinkle at the edges.

“Thank you very much, Rachel.” She rubs her palms together and inhales deeply. “I am sure this tastes so nice. You can always tell from the aroma.”

I guess that’s her attempt to lighten up the gloomy mood in the dining room.

“Thanks for the compliment, ma’am,” I reply shyly, my eyes glazing over the rest of the faces around the table.

Vaughn doesn’t even acknowledge my presence as his gaze remains fixed on the table. It’s almost as if his secretary hasn’t just walked into the room with the most delicious and mouthwatering chicken Parmesan you will ever taste.

Awkward.

I turn to leave when Vaughn’s mother decides to make the situation even more awkward for me by saying, “Why don’t yousit down at the table with us? I am sure there’s enough for all four of us.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I slowly turn back to face her. “Umm, I think it’s fine. I made some for myself back in the kitchen—”

My throat gets dry when my eyes roam over the rest of the people around the table. There is Vaughn’s sister, Michelle, who looks about seventeen, and then there is Steven, whose smooth, young face and huge stature make me unsure of his age.

“No. You eat here. I insist,” Mrs. Graham says with a smile. But even with the smile, her tone is firm enough for me to know that I don’t dare object.

Vaughn is looking at his mom at this point, annoyance etched into all the lines of his face. “Would you just let her go if she doesn’t want to sit? By the way, this is supposed to be a family lunch, so I don’t get why—”

She waves her hand at him, and he stops abruptly. I swear it takes me a great amount of self-control not to burst into fits of laughter right then and there when I see the look on his face. It is like that of a nine-year-old whose mom won’t buy him his favorite cookies at the store.

“I am hearing nothing of it, Vaughn.” She urges me to sit down, and I deliberately avoid sitting next to Vaughn, walking around the table to sit next to Michelle. She doesn’t even lift her head to acknowledge me and just keeps surfing through Instagram posts on her iPhone.

“Hi, Michelle,” I say.

She doesn’t even answer.

Sheesh, how typical for a seventeen-year-old.

“Put that phone away, Michelle,” Mrs. Graham orders just as Steven pulls a plate of steaming hot food toward himself and begins digging in.

Michelle mumbles something under her breath but eventually puts the phone away. Vaughn also calms down a bit, and we soon start eating in silence.

I occasionally steal a glance at Mrs. Graham and notice how much older she’s become since I last saw her. We met some months ago during a fundraising game for children with cancer, where a lot of parents were in attendance, and Vaughn introduced me as his PA.

“Yo, Vaughn, I heard preseason is starting very soon. Is your leg feeling much better?” Steven says between mouthfuls. “I can’t wait to see you get back on the field. My buddies are all excited and want autographs signed.”

“I am as good as new. Thanks, Steven. How’s college, by the way?” Vaughn asks.

Steven drops his fork and huffs, a frustrated look on his face. “Don’t even let me get started. There’s been so much going on that I hardly have any time for myself.”

Well, guess what, Steven—it’s either we attend the same college, or we both work for Vaughn because I am you, and you’re me.

---