Page 43 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

A white tablecloth had been set up with a single white rose serving as its centerpiece. There were two place settings, each with its own wine glass and cutlery. I tried to count the number of knives and forks beside each plate, but soon gave up. All of it was outlandishly lavish.

“Monsieur Windsor! We weredelightedwhen your visit was announced,” a man in a chef’s hat said in a heavy French accent. “We’re always excited when we get to welcome such influential clientele.”

Two waiters pulled out the ornate wooden chairs positioned at either side of the table.

“Thank you for being willing to accommodate my request,” Ace replied. He turned his head to face me and continued, “Stella, this is Mr. Perrault—”

My first thought was,Ace knows my passion for Agatha Christie’s mysteries, that was why he brought me here. In the two seconds it took to understand that I had misheard, and that the chef’s name was Perrault and not Poirot (as in Hercule Poirot, one of her most famous characters), I felt naked—and it wasn’t a bad feeling at all. How wonderful it would be if a man like Ace—gorgeous, influential, and charismatic to the max—knew my little nerd secret andstilltook me out to dinner.Sigh. I was only disappointed until I remembered that this was a working lunch and not a dinner date. At the same time, I wondered what my mishearing—let’s call it misunderstanding—said about myself and my fascination with my grumpy boss.

As I carefully sat down and tucked my dress skirt beneath me, I pushed all thoughts of “Ace, the Stunning Man” aside and focused on Ace Windsor, THE BOSS (clearly in all caps).

“…he owns Le Legendary Coq, one of New York’s finest restaurants.”

“Le Legendary Coq? I’ve heard of it.” I tried to keep a straight face. Me and Bonnie had laughed our asses off when we’d learned a place like that existed in the city. What kind of man would call his restaurant the “Legendary Rooster”? Only one who was one himself! At first, we’d thought the name was a joke, but no, it was legit. Maybe it had been part of the branding strategy since it was rather…memorable. Who knew? It had all likely started out as a joke, but then it had taken off. Mr. Perrault seemed just the type for it. I imagined him lying in bed late at night, thinking, “Only in America.” Bonnie woulddieif I told her I had been to the Legendary Coq.

I glanced up at Mr. Perrault, who now stood at the edge of the table, and before I could stop myself, I asked, “So, what is so legendary about it?”

Ace gave a chuckle at my question.

“Isure hopeeverything,Mademoiselle.” Mr. Perrault smiled smugly. “We have three Michelin stars.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Three stars? Congratulations, well done!”

Mr. Perrault gave a proud nod and served the wine—a favorite of Ace, a French Cheval Blanc from the Bordeaux wine region of France—then waved his arms, and servers swarmed our table, placing a plate in front of each of us. “Today’s menu consists of the following: venison tartare with wild berries, Umber escabeche with earth fruits for the main course, and chocolate tartlets with vanilla ice cream for dessert.”

“Oh, how…” I trailed off, searching for appropriate words. Tartare with wild berries? How did that fit together? And what were Umber escabeche and earth fruits? “...promising,” I concluded.

They lifted the silver cloches on our plates and revealed an array of delicacies. The scent that filled my nostrils made my mouth water.

“Thank you, Perrault,” Ace said. “You’ve outdone yourself. I promise the next time you see me, I’ll have made a proper reservation.”

“Monsieur Windsor, we’re always happy to make an exception for you.” Mr. Perrault bowed. “Enjoy your meals. I hope they’ll be satisfactory.” He stepped through the sliding-glass door and motioned for his assistants to follow him.

Ace waited until the trio were entirely out of earshot before saying, “You can tell me if you don’t like it. I can get you something else.”

“No, it looks lovely,” I assured him.

“In that case, cheers.” He lifted his wineglass and beckoned me to do the same. We clinked our glasses together. “To your first day.”

“To my first day,” I echoed nervously, raising the glass to my glossy lips. Technically it was my second day, but my first had been chaotic for Ace. It was nice of him to treat me to lunch. The wine was intense and complex, and completely unlike the boxed wine I was used to drinking. It tasted of red fruits, dark chocolate, and cassis. “Do you have lunch like this every day?”

“No. This is a special occasion.”

“If I were the boss, I’d have lunch like this every day,” I joked (but not), picking up one of the numerous forks to my left to sample the dish. I stabbed a bit of the fish, along with the ground fruit a.k.a. potatoes and popped it into my mouth. It was like landing in culinary heaven with just one bite. The taste exploded on my tongue, a mixture of sweet, earthy, and sour-salty, while the tender fish and crispy potatoes melted together. “It’s more than lovely—it’s delicious, legendary delicious,” I confirmed. “Monsieur Perrault is an artist.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, allowing his eyes to scan my face. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d feel the intense touch of his gaze. Chewing away at the world-class meal in front of me, I tried not to react to his piercing stare. I wondered if my dress’s material was a tiny bit more see-through in direct sunlight than anticipated, but instead of being embarrassed, I felt glamorous. In fact, I couldn’t help but feel a little goddess-like while caught in his sights. It was like being adored by Apollo himself. I knew that his glances were likely just a typical male reaction, but a large part of me hoped they were more than that.

We spent the rest of our shared meal making small talk about the economy (a subject I found boring, but one that he clearly found fascinating) as well as my tasks for the upcoming merger, which basically consisted of me assisting him and Mrs. Mills with, in his words, “the initial attestation and documentation of company history and financials, in order to allow both entities better assessment of the deal’s benefit.” Or specifically, compile a presentation with the most profitable clients’ projects from all the years in order, with samples, numbers, plans, and charts. Even though the important boxes were still lost, my task this week was to continue organizing the archive room, help with the material that the company had available, and assist with the daily tasks until the boxes arrived.

Over dessert we discussed current and upcoming architectural projects we would be working on, and their timetable.Maybe it was the delicious melt-in-the-mouth chocolate crust of the tart, or the best vanilla ice cream that had ever touched my tongue, but the time just flew by. Ace told me about one of his new projects, a children’s hospital, and we quickly came up with some ideas that would round out the project.

No work lunch had ever felt as good as this one. Or so luxurious.

The sky was growing darker, and small droplets of rain were beginning to fall.

When it started raining even more, it was time to go. “I’m going to drop you off at the office,” Ace said, “before I head to another meeting.”

Midway from the rooftop door to the helicopter, it started pouring so heavily, I feared I’d get wet on the way to my seat, even with my trusty big handbag covering my head. It was worse. The gusty wind picked up. To my shock, within only five seconds I was drenched to the bone.

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