Page 19 of Rockstar Next Door Neighbor

Then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the sand with the taste of regret in my mouth and the ghost of her skin under my fingers.

She’s right. Simple would be better. Simple would be walking away from Crystal, from the deal with her father, from all of it. Simple would be going after what—who—I really want.

But simple isn’t an option. Not if I want to protect my father and everything he’s worked for.

So, I’ll keep things complicated. Keep my distance. Keep pretending I don’t feel anything when I look at Lila.

But standing here, watching the space where she disappeared, I’m starting to wonder if any of it is worth the cost.

Seven

Lila

The breeze feels like it’s carried straight off the Mediterranean Sea as I step onto the stone patio of the oceanfront villa. It’s extravagant in a way that doesn’t just scream money—it whispers it, refined and understated. Twinkling lights wrap around palm trees, casting a warm glow over the intimate dining setup. A long, elegant table draped in linen sits at the heart of the patio, surrounded by plush chairs that look like they belong in an interior design magazine.

“Lila, this is stunning,” Jenny, my assistant from the bakery, whispers as she sets down the last of the stemless wine glasses.Her dark curls bounce as she glances around, wide-eyed. “I can’t believe we’re working here tonight.”

“Neither can I,” I admit, smoothing my apron as I step back to admire the setup. “But let’s focus. This is our shot to make a great impression.”

It’s not just a shot—it’stheshot. The kind that could change everything. When the company reached out, they made it clear they wanted top-tier service for their executives, and I’ve gone above and beyond to deliver. Every detail, from the custom menu to the timing of each course, has been carefully planned. The theme is Mediterranean, and I’ve spent the last week perfecting every dish—including grilled lamb skewers, fresh hummus with handmade pita, citrus-marinated olives, roasted eggplant, and a decadent honey-almond baklava for dessert.

Executives in tailored suits and cocktail dresses gather on the patio, their laughter and clinking glasses blending with the soft crash of the waves below. Jenny and I move seamlessly between the kitchen and the table, presenting each dish with the kind of care that makes even the simplest ingredients feel luxurious.

“Fresh grilled lamb with rosemary and garlic,” I say, setting down a plate in front of the host, Mr. Carmichael, a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair and a polished smile. “Paired with a mint-yogurt dipping sauce.”

By the time dessert rolls around, I know we’ve nailed it. The honey-almond baklava is the final triumph, golden and glistening on the plates as the guests marvel over the perfect balance of sweetness and spice.

“This is incredible,” one of the women gushes, her diamond earrings catching the light as she turns to the host. “Where did youfindher?”

“She came highly recommended,” the host says, smiling at me. “And now I see why. Lila, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“Thank you,” I say, my cheeks warming. “I’m so glad you enjoyed everything.”

The last of the baklava disappears from crystal serving plates as I begin cleanup in the villa’s enormous kitchen. Jenny is efficiently loading the commercial dishwasher while I package the few remaining appetizers for the host.

“That went perfectly,” Jenny whispers excitedly. “Did you see their faces when you brought out the baklava?”

I smile, remembering the appreciative murmurs that had followed each course. The practice runs over the past week had paid off—especially the night Luke had sampled everything, offering thoughtful feedback between bites. His obviousenjoyment of the food had given me the confidence boost I needed.

“Mrs. Carmichael loved the mezze spread,” I say, carefully wrapping the last of the leftovers. “And the lamb tagine and skewers were a hit.”

“A hit?” Jenny raises an eyebrow. “That silver-haired man asked for thirds.”

The evening had gone better than I’d dared hope. The Mediterranean menu worked perfectly for the upscale business dinner, each course flowing seamlessly into the next. Everything came together exactly as planned.

“Lila, dear,” Mrs. Carmichael sweeps into the kitchen, her designer dress sparkling under the recessed lighting. “You’ve absolutely outdone yourself. Everyone is raving about the food.”

“I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” I say, trying to maintain professional composure despite my internal victory dance.

“Enjoyed it? My dear, you’ve set the bar impossibly high for all future dinner parties.” She takes my hands in hers. “I’ve already given your card to three of my friends.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Carmichael. That means a lot.” I say, my voice steady despite the thrill coursing throughme.

“Please, call me Diane.” She waves elegantly toward the dining room. “Take your time cleaning up. The company men are moving to the terrace for cigars and brandy—so cliché, but what can you do?”

She glides out, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume and the promise of future bookings. Jenny and I exchange excited grins before returning to our cleanup routine.

The evening would’ve been perfect—one of those rare, seamless nights that stays in your memory forever—if it weren’t for the conversation, I’m unfortunate enough to overhear next.

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