Lila Harper's sneakers squeaked against the polished marble of the Voss Tower lobby as she hurried out into the Manhattan night. The city hit her like a wave—honking taxis, the chatter of pedestrians, the sharp bite of October air.
She tugged her jacket tighter, her breath fogging in the glow of neon signs.
It was past eight, and her shift at Elliot Voss's penthouse had ended with a spectacular disaster: spilling coffee on her billionaire boss.
She groaned, replaying the moment in her head.
His soaked shirt.
Her panicked babbling.
The way he'd laughed instead of firing her.
And then he'd told her to call him Elliot. Like they were friends.
Like she wasn't just the maid who'd probably ruined a shirt worth more than her rent.
She shook her head, weaving through the crowded sidewalk toward the subway.
The memory of his eyes—storm-gray, sharp, but softer than she'd expected—lingered like the aftertaste of good coffee.
"Get it together, Lila," she muttered, dodging a guy in a suit barking into his phone.
She had no business thinking about her boss like that.
He was a billionaire, a tech genius who probably dated models or heiresses, not maids with flour in their hair and dreams too big for their bank account.
The subway ride to Brooklyn was a blur of fluorescent lights and the rumble of the train. Lila pulled out her notebook, the one she'd been scribbling in when Elliot had caught her off guard in the kitchen.
Pages of recipes—some her mom's, some her own—spilled across the worn pages, scribbled with notes like more thyme? or try lemon zest.
Tonight's focaccia had been a win, at least until the coffee incident.
He'd liked it. Really liked it.
She smiled, then caught herself.
"Stop it," she whispered. "He's just being nice.
"Her stop came too soon.
She climbed the stairs to the street, the city's pulse giving way to the quieter hum of her neighborhood.
Brownstones lined the block, their stoops littered with pumpkins for Halloween.
Her apartment—a cramped one-bedroom she shared with her best friend, Mateo—was a few streets over, but she wasn't headed home yet.
She had a date with a food truck.
"Lila, my queen!" Mateo's voice boomed as she approached Taco 'Bout It, his food truck parked near a bustling night market.
He leaned out the window, his dark curls tied back, his apron stained with salsa.
"You're late. Did His Royal Billionaire keep you scrubbing floors past curfew?"
She laughed, climbing into the truck. "Worse. I spilled coffee on him."
She dropped her bag and tied on an apron, the familiar chaos of the truck grounding her. The air smelled of sizzling carnitas and fresh cilantro, and the counter was a mess of chopped onions and lime wedges.Mateo's jaw dropped.
"You what? On Elliot Voss? The guy who probably owns half of Silicon Valley?"
"Yup."
She grabbed a knife and started dicing tomatoes, her hands moving on autopilot. "Splashed his fancy shirt. I thought I was done for, but he just… laughed.
And ate my focaccia.
"Mateo whistled, flipping a tortilla on the griddle.
"Focaccia? You're out here baking for billionaires now? Next, you'll be catering his board meetings."
"Shut up," she said, tossing a tomato chunk at him.
He dodged, grinning.
"It was just a test recipe.
He caught me in the kitchen, and… I don't know.
It was weird. Nice, but weird."
"Weird how?" Mateo handed her a stack of orders, his brown eyes narrowing.
"Don't tell me you're crushing on Mr. Moneybags.
He's your boss, Lila. And, like, a gazillionaire.
That's a whole different planet."
"I'm not crushing," she said, too quickly.
Her cheeks warmed, and she focused on the tomatoes, chopping faster.
"He's just… not what I expected.
He's kind of normal.
For a guy who lives in a penthouse the size of a museum."
Mateo snorted.
"Normal? Sure. Until he flies you to Paris on his private jet and you realize he's got a secret dungeon or something."
She rolled her eyes, but her stomach did a little flip.
Not at the dungeon part—God, no—but at the idea of Elliot being anything other than the cold, untouchable CEO she'd imagined when she took the job.
Tonight, he'd been… human.
Eating her bread. Smiling.
Saying her name like it mattered.
"Earth to Lila," Mateo said, waving a spatula. "We've got a line out there.
You gonna daydream about your billionaire or help me feed these hipsters?
"She shoved the thoughts of Elliot aside and dove into the rhythm of the truck.
Taking orders, assembling tacos, bantering with customers—it was her escape, her second home.
Mateo had started Taco 'Bout It a year ago, and Lila helped out when she could, saving every tip for culinary school. The dream felt closer some days, but tonight, it was a reminder of how far she had to go. Tuition wasn't cheap, and her savings account was more of a savings jar.
An hour later, the crowd thinned, and Mateo handed her a taco.
"Break time. Spill. What's the deal with Voss? You're all… glowy."
"I'm not glowy," she protested, biting into the taco.
The spicy pork and pineapple hit her taste buds like a hug.
"I'm mortified. I called him Elliot, Mateo. Elliot.
Like we're buddies.
I'm supposed to be invisible, not chatting him up over bread."
Mateo laughed so hard he nearly dropped his tongs.
"You called him by his first name? Oh, you're in deep. Next thing you know, he's inviting you to his yacht."
"He doesn't have a yacht," she said, then paused.
"I mean, probably. I don't know. Point is, I need this job.
I can't afford to mess it up by… whatever that was."
"Chemistry," Mateo said, smirking.
"That's what it was.You're blushing, Harper."
"Am not."
She stuffed another bite of taco in her mouth, hoping it hid her face.
But Mateo was right—she couldn't stop thinking about Elliot's laugh, or the way his fingers had brushed the plate when she'd handed him the focaccia.
It was stupid.
Dangerous.
He was her boss, and she was a maid with flour on her hands and a life that didn't fit in his world.
"Listen," Mateo said, his tone softening. "You're amazing, Lila.
Your food's magic, and you're gonna kill it at culinary school.
But guys like Voss? They don't play in our sandbox. Be careful, okay?"
"I know," she said, her voice quieter.
"I'm not looking for trouble. I just want to pay for school, open my own place someday. Maybe a little café, you know? Nothing fancy, just… mine."
Mateo nodded, squeezing her shoulder. "You'll get there. And when you do, I'm eating free for life."
She laughed, the tension easing.
"Deal. But you're washing dishes."
They worked until midnight, the truck's lights casting a warm glow over the last stragglers. Lila's phone buzzed as she wiped down the counter.
A text from Mrs. Delaney, the head housekeeper:Mr. Voss asked for you to handle his breakfast tomorrow. 7 AM sharp. Don't be late.
Her heart stuttered.
Breakfast? That wasn't part of her usual duties—Mrs. Delaney handled mornings. Why her? She pictured Elliot's face, that half-smile, and her stomach did that stupid flip again.
"Great," she muttered, pocketing the phone.
"Just what I need. More chances to spill stuff on him."
"You good?" Mateo asked, locking up the truck.
"Yeah," she lied, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
"Just tired."
But as she walked home, the city's lights blurring into streaks of gold and red, she couldn't shake the feeling that tomorrow was going to be more than just breakfast.
It was going to be trouble.
The kind that tasted like rosemary focaccia and looked like a billionaire with storm-gray eyes.