Chapter 46: Nepo-babies Can Cook Apparently
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I was dumbfounded, what did this guy mean ’no’?!
"No?" I repeated, disbelief heavy in my voice. "Just no?"
"Just no."
"That’s not how returning money works."
"You’re not returning it; you’re refusing it. Different thing."
I stared at him, frustrated. Technically, he was correct, and I hated that.
"Take it back, I’m not a damn charity case." I said again, slower, hoping the pacing would help.
Damien set the spoon down and turned to face me, leaning casually against the counter in a way that, under most circumstances, would have looked relaxed but now seemed like a deliberate effort to annoy me.
Even over the food, he smelled clean and expensive in a way my exhausted brain was noting against my will.
"It wasn’t charity," he said, even and direct, without any qualifiers. "You earned it."
"I just made a latte, I didn’t earn that amount of money."
"You served my latte while clearly running on no sleep and still doing your job. The tip reflected the whole situation."
I let out a dry laugh. "Right. And in your world, a hundred dollars is probably what you give the valet for parking your car. To you, it’s pocket change. It doesn’t mean the same thing to me, this isn’t a tip. So I can’t take it."
He frowned slightly, looking genuinely confused ince again . "It’s just a hundred dollars."
I looked at him for a moment.
Then I laughed again, this time genuinely, because it was a reaction I couldn’t control. It wasn’t because anything was funny; it was more the realization of a suspicion I’d had.
"Only a hundred bucks," I said quietly. "Yeah, right. Of course."
Damien’s expression shifted slightly, as if he was recalibrating after realizing how that landed. But I was already moving like an offended crazy person.
"So you think throwing cash at people just solves their problems?" My voice had more bite than I intended. "You think I’m some stray that needs cash and you can just—"
I paused, running a hand through my hair. "Take it back, Damien. Seriously."
His jaw tightened. "That’s not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
"I know you needed it."
The words slipped out before he could think about them, like they had been waiting to be said for a while.The sentence settled between us, heavy in the warm kitchen air.
My chest tightened.
I took a step back, not dramatically, just enough to adjust the space between us. "Wow. Okay. So you do see me as a charity case."
"That’s not—"
"Fantastic. Just fantastic to get that confirmed."
"Oliver—"
"I don’t need your help or your pity." The words came out with more intensity than I meant, the result of pride having been my main resource for too long, especially after his comment had hit too close to home. "I’m not someone you fix by tossing money on counters."
Damien exhaled slowly through his nose, his patience visibly strained. "You’re impossible."
"And you’re an asshole."
"You’ve said that before."
"It continues to be true."
"Does it?"
"Yes."
His mouth twitched, the same way it did when he was deciding whether to say something or keep quiet. Then he added, "You called me sexy days ago."
Heat flushed over my face immediately, so fast I didn’t even register why. "I did not say that."
"You did."
"I—" I hesitated. Rewinding my memory, I found the moment shrined in crystal clarity. "That was in a different context."
"What context changes that, exactly?"
"The—" I pointed at him, trying to regain focus. "Stop. We’re not discussing that, stop trying to change the damn subject! We’re addressing the money!"
"The money you won’t let me explain."
"Because the explanations keep missing the mark!"
He held my gaze steadily. "Then tell me what the correct explanation is, and I’ll use that instead."
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
The kitchen was filled with the soft background sounds of something simmering on the back burner, the steady hiss of something that didn’t care how our conversation was going.
"I don’t need you to help me," I finally murmured, quieter now, the heated edge fading. "I can manage my life."
"I know you can."
"Then why—"
"Because I wanted to." He said it with a directness that had no frills. "Not because you can’t handle it, but because I wanted to do something for your hard work, I noticed you barely have time to rest these past few days. And a tip was my way to do it."
I looked at him and he looked back at me.
The kitchen was warm and dim, and the food was wafting through the air in a way that my body responded to instinctively, regardless of my thoughts. In front of me, Damien stood there, honest and straightforward like he had been the night before. I found myself without a clear response.
I glared at the hundred-dollar bill lying on the counter as if it had just insulted my entire family tree as Damien went back to cooking as if the argument never even happened.
The stupid thing just sat there, crisp and shiny under the warm kitchen lights, looking obnoxiously expensive and outrageously annoying.
Meanwhile, Damien was beside it at the stove, stirring some ridiculously gourmet sauce like we hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes arguing about how insane it was to tip someone a hundred dollars for a latte. The delightful aroma kept wafting over, making this whole situation even more irritating.
Honestly, rich people should be studied like lab rats. I would love to cut them open and study them because, the way many of these elite students acted always made my jaw drop.
Okay, that sounded weird and gross...I didn’t really want to cut open anyone.
Many of them were so blissfully ignorant it hurt, but fir some reason...Damien didn’t fall into that category. He might be clueless, sure. But at the same time, he knew and observed a lot.
The entire apartment smelled so good, thick with garlic, butter, herbs, and some kind of smoky goodness that made my stomach ache the longer I stood there.
There was a perfect steak resting on the cutting board next to him, sliced like something out of one of those cooking shows my dad used to binge-watch, thinking he could be a chef if accounting fell through.
The juices glimmered under the light, and I had to force myself not to stare too long.
Meanwhile, my own cooking skills were average at best...I never had the skill to cook something this good.