have believed any of the made-up offenses. Anyone that had a conversation with Blanka, or even looked at the Taylor Swift-humming girl could clearly she meant no harm.
I gestured at the ingredients in front of me, trying to alleviate the suffocating tension that hung in the air. “Why don’t I give you a hand with this?”
She went even paler. “But Isa—”
“I won’t take no for an answer. And I won’t steal your thunder.” I said lightly. I stepped around her to the sink and washed and dried my hands, turning my attention back to breakfast. “I’m about 99.9% sure you can make better eggs than me, but I’m pretty good at following instructions.”
A smile danced in her eyes, but she was still hesitant. “That really isn’t necessary, Miss Montgomery.”
“Call me Leila,” I corrected gently. To prove I was serious about helping, I opened the egg carton. “Are we scrambling or doing one of those folding egg thingies?”
“Folding egg thingies?” Her hesitation melted into confusion as she repeated it to herself, and I bit my lip to hold back a laugh. “You mean an omelet?”
“Oh yeah,” I nodded, like it was coming back to me. “One of those.”
“I think you better listen to my instructions very carefully,” she giggled. “If Francois found out that someone was cooking in his kitchen that called an omelet a folding egg thingy he’d probably lose it.” She pointed at the eggs, then the milk, and salt and pepper. “Can you whisk eight eggs in the glass bowl with one cup of milk and a pinch of salt and pepper?”
“I sure can!” I cracked the eggs, miraculously keeping the shell fragments out of the egg mixture, then poured in the milk. I reached for the salt and pepper. “So you’re a student? What are you studying?”
She sprinkled flour over the counter. “Fashion.”
“Milan, here you come?” I said with a smile.
She stole a glance at me, like she almost thought I was poking fun, but when she saw I was being genuine, the bright and bubbly girl I met returned. “New York too. It’s my dream to see the world then go back home and open a boutique.” She paused for a moment, then gathered up the ball of dough and dropped it on the floured surface, kneading it with strong thrusts that surprised me given her slight frame. “My mother was an artist, but her work never left the walls of our living room. I won’t let that happen to me.”
I had only just met her, but there was something powerfully genuine about her. I had a feeling that she had the drive and talent to make every dream come true.
“Someday, celebrities will be clamoring to wear Blanka.” Her eyes shot to me then she flattened the ball of dough into a disc. “Maybe someday you would wear my dresses?”
I had not seen a single sketch, but I knew if her dresses were anything like her personality, I would shine the brightest in the room. “I’d love to! Honestly, I’m not sure how much capital Leila Montgomery wearing your clothing will bring. A month from now, I’m sure no one will remember my name.”
She grabbed a pizza cutter and sliced the flat disc into equal sections. “You might not be first page news, but you are like Cinderella. No one will forget that the billionaire fell in love with someone so—”
“Ordinary?” I offered, trying to disguise my hurt with a tight smile.
“Independent,” she corrected, moving the slices of dough to a baking sheet. “You’re not known because you were in a movie or because of what family you are from. People will remember you because in every stolen picture, when you don’t notice the photogs and it’s just you and Jacob, you look at him like you could care less about any of the fame or money. You look like a woman in love.” She slid the sheet in the oven. “With people famous for being famous and so many fake relationships for publicity’s sake that makes you worth remembering. You’re real—and anyone with two eyes can see that you and Jacob
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