Free How to Teach Filthy Rich Girls by Zoey Dean Page A

under my black loafers—at least the aroma of eau de smoke seemed to be gone. It was a perfect morning: The sky was azure, and the air was fresh, without the mugginess of the day and night before.
    I was surprised to find the mansion‘s door open but then remembered that it would be impossible for an intruder to get past the security gate. In the foyer, I called for Sage and Rose. Nothing. Something smelled fantastic, though—garlic and cheese—and my stomach rumbled.
    My nose twitched like that of a dog picking up a familiar scent, and I followed the aroma down a hallway and into a French country kitchen. A floating island in the center of the room held an eight-burner stove. Copper pots and pans hung from ceiling hooks.
    There was a sturdy stone table with about twenty straight-back chairs surrounding it, as well as a six-person round table nestled in one corner. The backdrop was the ocean, glistening through a twenty-foot wall of glass.
    ―Ah, just in time for breakfast!‖ A handsome silver-haired man, wearing a white chef‘s jacket over a white linen shirt and off-white trousers with a perfect knife pleat, was whisking eggs in a copper bowl.
    ―I was looking for the twins,‖ I explained. ―I‘m Megan Smith, their new tutor.‖
    ―Delighted!‖ He flashed me a smile, then poured the eggs into a frying pan on the stove.
    Another pan held sizzling cloves of garlic. ―I‘m Marco Devine, Madame Limoges‘s chef.‖
    Marco. Summon Marco. This was Marco.
    He flipped the garlic on top of the eggs. ―I thought you might be hungry. I was going to have one of the maids deliver this to your room, but now you can enjoy it here. I hope you like garlic. I‘m afraid I‘m entirely incapable of cooking without it.‖
    ―I love it. And I‘m starving,‖ I confessed, leaning against the center island. ―Do you have coffee, by any chance?‖
    He laughed and motioned to the small round table. ―Black carafe is French roast, brown carafe is Ethiopian, red carafe is Venezuelan, and white is decaf that no one in their right mind should drink.‖ He pulled an earthenware mug from a cupboard and handed it to me. ―Help yourself.‖
    After I poured the French roast, Marco leaned over and popped a fresh cinnamon stick into my cup. ―French roast should never be consumed without a cinnamon stick,‖ he explained. ―They were made for each other.‖
    ―Thank you,‖ I said, meaning it more than he could know. It was the best coffee I‘d ever tasted. ―Have the girls been here for breakfast?‖
    He chuckled again and moved the pan around on the stove. ―They‘re allergic to breakfast, darling. Actually, they‘re allergic to morning entirely.‖
    ―Well, they‘re not in bed—I checked.‖
    ―You mean they‘re not in their own beds.‖ Marco flipped the eggs. ―You‘ll see them around noon. Maybe.‖

    Interesting. This guy seemed to know a lot about the twins. What a good place to start my research.
    ―Have you worked here a long time?‖ I asked innocently.
    ―Since the twins were in the terrible twelves.‖ His eyes glinted with good humor. ―I believe that would be the terrible twos times six.‖
    ―You must know them well, then.‖
    ―I doubt they know themselves well yet, darling,‖ Marco opined as he slid the omelet onto a white china plate, then tore various fresh herbs from small pots on a ledge and sprinkled them over the omelet. Next he fanned bright green avocado slices around the plate and added a dollop of sour cream. ―The twins lead what Socrates would call ‗an unexamined life.‘ Sit.‖ He pointed to the smaller table and then put the omelet down in front of me.
    I took my first bite. Incredible. ―Wow.‖
    ―I shall take that as a compliment.‖ Marco poured me a glass of orange juice, then brought a tiered silver tray that held croissants, brioche, and small silver pots of jellies and jams. I reached for a brioche, still warm from the oven, pulled off a flaky hunk, and put it in my mouth.