His Missing Ingredient

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Claire

“What are you qualified for?” asks Pierre, the impatient man interviewing me.

Good question.

As a girl who just left home in the middle of the night with a suitcase of clothes and her freshly printed high school diploma, I haven’t exactly spent much time in the workforce. But I knew making money would be the hardest part of setting out on my own, didn’t I?

I can’t afford to get intimidated now.

My feet are sore from pounding the pavement all day.

No restaurants are hiring. This fancy bistro called Tartine is my final hope for a second job.

I’ve already secured one waitressing position at a nightclub a few blocks away, but they were only able to guarantee me two shifts per week.

I’m going to need a lot more income if I want to move out of the motel where I’m staying temporarily.

“I can waitress,” I say politely, hands clasped together tightly in my lap. “Actually, I’ve already been hired to work night shifts at Swet—”

“You’re going to work at Swet?” Pierre throws back his head with a rip of laughter, before eyeing me with nothing short of glee. “You’re going to get eaten alive.”

I hold my smile. “I’m tougher than I look.”

He adjusts his starched collar, looking dubious. “I’m guessing you haven’t seen the waitress uniform yet.”

My pulse jumps. He’s right. The manager at Swet gave me my uniform in a bag earlier. I simply haven’t had time to look at it yet. But I’m not going to let this man know that. “Like I said, I’m tougher than I look.”

With a derisive snort, Pierre leans back in his chair and gives my body a long, lazy once-over that makes my skin crawl.

He’s in his early thirties, shaved head, meticulously groomed.

If he wasn’t so rude, he might even be attractive.

“You do have a very pretty face. Perhaps you have the attributes to match beneath that heavy coat?”

“I can wash dishes,” I blurt, hurriedly diverting his attention from my body.

I haven’t removed my coat since my first interview of the day when a restaurant owner claimed I needed to show him my legs to determine if I qualified as a waitress.

There has been a terrible feeling of subservience every time I’ve walked into a room alone with a man today.

They all seem determined to flex their power and comment on my looks, which should be irrelevant, right?

“Do you have an opening in the kitchen for dish washer?” I ask again, when he continues to peruse my body through my coat.

Reluctantly, he drags his eyes back up to my face. “As it happens, we do need someone to clean dishes. The last guy just quit. After one day.”

“Why?”

Pierre laughs. “My brother is the head chef. And he’s a complete asshole. That’s why.”

“Oh.” I shrug a shoulder. “Well, that doesn’t intimidate me. I lived with an asshole the first eighteen years of my life.” I slap a hand over my mouth when I realize I just said that out loud. “Sorry, I forgot I was in a job interview.”

“Well, well, well, she’s got some spunk.” He eyes me closer. “Running away from daddy, are you?”

I stay silent.

That’s none of this man’s business.

It’s nobody’s business but mine.

Pierre leans forward. “I guarantee you, my brother, Draven, is worse than whatever you’ve experienced.

He gets away with it because he’s one of the most innovative French cuisine chefs in the Midwest. If you think you can handle him, sweetheart, you’re more than welcome to try.

” He waves me off. “Come back tonight and I’ll throw you to the wolf.

If nothing else, it’ll be entertaining.”

Relief fills my stomach. “Thank you, sir.”

Triumphant, I stand up, ignoring the way Pierre leers at me, his gaze burning me through the wool of my coat. Could his brother really be worse than him?

I guess I’ll find out tonight. But if Pierre thinks a cranky chef is enough to send me running, I can’t wait to prove him wrong.

My first impression of Draven is his shout echoing down the length of the stainless-steel kitchen and stopping me in my tracks.

Frost forms on my skin, but I finish tying my apron at the small of my back and keep walking.

When I arrived tonight, I was directed by a bored hostess to the employee locker room in the back of the restaurant where I found a note with my name on it taped to my locker, briefly explaining my duties.

Basically, the sink is my home for the next four hours.

First, I must clean up the lunchtime mess, plus the dishes used during dinner prep, after which I’ll be scrubbing soiled dishes on the fly for the duration of the evening.

No sweat.

I’ve been cleaning an entire household since kindergarten.

Thinking about how my father and stepmother must have reacted when they woke up to find me gone, I shiver all the way down to my toes.

They have no idea where you’ve gone. They’re not going to find you. You’re safe.

With a deep breath, I put my chin up and march further into the kitchen, intending to station myself at the sink, keep my head down and clean my booty off until the dishes glisten like diamonds.

But I see the gigantic man up ahead, I stumble over the rubber mat on the floor of the kitchen, heat crowding into my belly, my face flushing wildly.

Is that…Draven?

It must be. He’s wearing a white coat and everyone is nodding at his instructions like he’s passing on a message from God.

Maybe he is.

If I was God, I would look no further for a messenger.

He’s…breathtaking.

Broad and intense and commanding. His medium-length dark hair sticks out of the bottom of a black bandana that is secured around his head, stubble graces his powerful jaw, golden eyes piercing the soul of everyone they land on.

He gestures with his hands at the group of gathered kitchen workers, and I can’t help but stare at those long fingers, the muscles of my abdomen tightening suspiciously.

Wow. His mouth looks so hard, while still being…plush.

Am I attracted to this man?

No, that would be strange and inconvenient.

He’s at least thirty-two.

And mean.

I’ve just escaped from an angry man. The last thing I need is another one in my life.

Not that having Draven in my life is an option.

As co-owner of this restaurant, he’s essentially my boss, and based on the copious glowing reviews I read today about the chef of Tartine, he lives, eats and breathes food.

No time for relationships, even if he were to glance at me twice.

Which he won’t! I’m a dishwasher. Inconsequential.

Forcing myself to move, I skirt around the back of the group, my plan to find the sink and start scrubbing. I’m brought up short when Draven’s voice cuts off mid-sentence. Cutting a glance to my right, I’m shocked to find he’s staring right at me.

“Who are you?”

Everyone’s heads whip around at once.

It’s not their attention that makes me feel like I’m free-falling, however.

It’s his.

Having those eyes directly on me is like being bathed in fire.

Has there ever been any man so beautiful?

“I, um…” Oh lord, I sound as breathless as I feel. “I’m the new dishwasher.”

Draven crosses his thick arms, his upper lip curling. “No. Get out.”

Someone snickers. A few members of staff shuffle their feet, eyes on the floor.

My pulse is racing in my wrists and temples. “Get out?” I repeat.

“That’s what I said.”

“But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I don’t allow fragile little girls in my kitchen.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not one of those,” I retort, resisting the urge to kick the kitchen worker who is still laughing under his breath at me. “Now, if you’re done yelling at me for no reason, I’m going to go clean some dishes.”

That shuts everyone up.

Draven slowly hoists a black brow. “You think you’re tough?”

“No. I know I’m tough.”

His upper lip curls. “Stay out of my way while I’m cooking.”

I sniff. “Unless you’re cooking in the sink, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

The barest trace of humor teases up one corner of that sculpted mouth. His gaze tracks down my body, but unlike the men who’ve been interviewing me all day, he doesn’t leer like a goon. It’s a sharp accounting of my figure. A reluctant awareness.

I really wish my nipples didn’t bead in response.

“What is your name?” Draven asks, striding through his riveted staff, the throng parting to allow him through, like Moses strolling through the Red Sea.

“Claire,” I say, forcing my chin to stay up, even though the closer he gets to me, the more I feel urged to bow my head, as if in prayer.

This man is dynamic and teeming with raw energy.

A sort of giddiness rides along my limbs and tickles my nerve endings when he stops in front of me, his golden eyes narrowing on my face.

“My brother hired you, Claire?”

“Yes,” I whisper, wondering how it’s possible that my tummy is quivering. It has never done that before. “I was hired just this afternoon.”

“Chef.”

A line forms between my brows. “I’m sorry?”

“I was hired just this afternoon, chef.”

Right.

Haven’t I learned everything from watching The Bear?

“I was hired this afternoon, chef,” I whisper, looking up at him and feeling a silky shift in my panties.

A greeting of wetness that I don’t expect and have never experienced before.

But instinctively, I know it’s my body’s first kiss of arousal.

Does it come from acknowledging that he’s in charge of me?

Does it come from having to tilt my head all the way back to maintain our eye contact, because he’s over a foot taller and so much larger than me?

“That’s much better, Claire. Maybe you’ll make it through the night after all.”

I swallow hard. “I plan on it, chef.”

Without warning, he takes my right hand and holds it up, examining my fingers.

Based on his smirk, I think he’s expecting to find a delicate hand that has never scrubbed dishes a day in their life.

Instead, he finds nails cut down to the nub.

Little scars on my fingers from accidental knife cuts while I cooked and cleaned for my whole family, a veritable servant.

Slight calluses from all the fetching and carrying of firewood.

Draven’s jaw stiffens more the longer he looks.

He considers my face next, his expression curious and steadily growing angry.

“You’ve been mistreated,” he rasps for my ears alone.

Horrifyingly, tears smart in my eyes, I’m so caught off guard by his observation.

By the unexpected tenderness in his voice.

I want to run. I also…want to be held.

I don’t know what I want, but I’m laid so bare under his scrutiny, all these desires seem to bubble to the surface after a lifetime of being kept at bay. Like he’s coaxing them out of me.

“May I go clean the dishes now, chef?” I say, struggling to keep my voice even.

After a hesitation, he inclines his head and finally releases my wrist, his hand curling into a jerky fist after he lets me go.

It takes so much willpower to turn away from him and march to the sink, it scares me. But I need this job and the income it provides, so I staunchly ignore the eyes I feel drilling into my back all night…and I do what I do best. I focus on survival.