9. Carson James
9
CARSON JAMES
“W
hat have I told you damn near a million times?” I snapped as I stomped into the barn and caught Brooke red-handed.
My sister-in-law—my very pregnant sister-in-law—had the good sense to look guilty as she clutched the pitchfork to her chest. “Cassandra’s in the office today. I’m hiding until the next arena rental starts.”
Brooke managed the equine program that I didn’t entirely hate. I hated it when field trips came with hordes of barely house-trained preschoolers. But the riding lessons and boarding programs were fine.
I grabbed the pitchfork out of her hand and set it against the wall. “You’ve worked for her for what—two years now? And you share a last name. You can’t honestly tell me you’re still scared of her.”
“Like you’re not scared of her?” Brooke said as she reached for a broom.
I snatched it away from her and pushed her into a chair. “Sit. You do know you can go home and rest, right?”
She let out a heavy breath and rested her hands on top of her belly. “Nope. Ray’s home.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “If he’s back to being a grumpy jackass, I’ll kill him.”
Brooke laughed. “No, he’s fine. Just insatiable when I’m pregnant. I swear, the baby bump turns him into a caveman.”
I did not need to know that about my brother.
I set the broom against the old wooden saddle stand and paused when it creaked and swayed. The damn thing looked like it was about to fall to pieces.
I cocked my head. “You remember it being that wobbly?”
Brooke looked like she had been caught red-handed, and I put the pieces together.
“You people are horny heathens,” I muttered, shaking my head.
At least Brooke had the good sense to look guilty. “Maybe announce yourself before you walk through here when it’s dark?”
I flipped her off as a woman’s shriek caught us both by surprise.
“Looks like you’re busted,” I muttered as Cassandra came stomping in on those ridiculous high heels she always wore.
“I swear if that horse tries to bite me one more goddamn time, I’ll—” Cassandra paused when she spotted me and Brooke staring. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Maybe answer your phone or the radio like a civilized professional.”
Brooke swallowed. “Sorry, I was just?—”
“Not you,” Cassandra clipped. “Why are you out here? You should be resting.”
“Told you,” I mouthed to Brooke.
She flipped me off.
Cassandra turned her exacting gaze to me. “You’re the Griffith I’ve been trying to hunt down. First, tell your fucking horse to stop trying to bite me.”
“No can do, Cass,” I said as I snagged a few treats from the bin for Anarchy. Even I had to bribe my way onto her good side sometimes.
“Second, I need you up at the restaurant.”
I laughed. “Pretty sure you don’t want me anywhere near your little pet project. Not my job, not my problem.”
Her features turned deadly. “It will very much be your problem when my sizeten Jimmy Choo is up your ass. One of the tilt skillets is broken, and the equipment repair tech can’t get out here for a week.”
“Do I look like I know how to fix a—whatever the hell a tilt skillet is?”
“Christian and Nate are at the livestock auction, and your father is taking a nap,” she said.
I stared her down for a minute, contemplating what I could get out of this. “I want coffee the next time you go into town. Good coffee.”
Cassandra looked surprised, then suspicious. “That’s it? One coffee?”
I thought back to the second round of briskets that Lennon had been up all night smoking the day after she force-fed me the soup from hell.
I didn’t want to admit that I had swapped and taken a night shift so I could watch her from a distance in person instead of watching the cameras.
Spying on Lennon while Anarchy silently judged me wasn’t as good as the first night she had been out by the smoker. The night we went tit for tat as I felt her up.
Goddamn, she was something else . . .
“One coffee and takeout from the restaurant.”
Cassandra laughed. “I’ll pick up your fancy coffee while I’m in town, but you can get takeout anytime you want.” She smirked. “Or is your pride bigger than your appetite?”
I glowered. “You want your fancy skillet fixed or not?”
Cass raised her hands. “Fine. I’ll even have the food delivered to the bunkhouse.”
I wasted time in the shop we used to fix equipment, unpacking and repacking a tool bag that was already neatly organized. Really, I was biding my time, hoping to see Lennon’s car disappear down the long drive and head toward town.
When that didn’t happen, I trudged to the restaurant, filthy from the day. I waltzed through the packed dining room, to the horror of the staff and guests, and let myself into the kitchen.
“Eighty-six the pork chops,” Lennon shouted to a server. “I’ve got plates for table nine and table four coming up.” She snatched up a steak and prodded the top. “Are you aware of what ‘rare’ means, or should I take the time out of our very busy dinner service to re-educate you?”
A server burst through the doors. “Chef, tableseventeen wants to change their steak to medium well.”
“Excellent,” Lennon said as she plated up the overcooked steak. “I’ve got it right here. Let’s do our jobs right the first time and keep the food waste to a minimum, folks.”
“Yes, Chef,” was the communal answer.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?” Lennon barked.
It took a moment to realize that the question was meant for me. I knew she was a force to be reckoned with—I learned that first-hand. But every time my folks had requested the chef come up to our table, she was toned down.
I lifted my eyebrows. A snappy retort was on the tip of my tongue, but that knife in Lennon’s hand was too close for comfort. “Cass sent me to fix whatever broke.”
Lennon paused. “Oh.”
“Show me where it is so we can go back to our separate corners.”
“Julian, you’re on expo,” she said as she wiped her hands clean.
Julian—the guy manning the grill—turned and looked me up and down before muttering, “Yes, Chef ,” at Lennon’s back.
I waited until Lennon led me a few steps away before asking, “What’s his problem?”
She snorted. “Much like you, he doesn’t like me very much at the moment.”
“Probably has a good reason.”
She cut me with a sharp look, but said nothing more about it. “This is it,” she said as she led me to a shiny stainless-steel table with a heavy looking lid. It sat next to a long row of ovens and standalone pots that were large enough to cook a person.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked as I lifted the lid to the giant rectangle and tried to figure out exactly what the thing did.
“The hinges are jammed or something. It won’t lift. We’ve had to scoop everything out by hand, which pretty much defeats the purpose.”
There was a wide slanted spout on the front, giving the cooks the ability to make a big batch of something, then lift it and pour it out.
Lennon and I switched places without touching. I opened the machine and tried to tilt the cooking surface, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Did you not hear what I said?” she huffed like I was a complete moron. “It’s jammed. It won’t?—”
“Cool your tits. I heard you.”
Her expression turned deadly. “You and I can go at it outside this building, but you will not speak to me that way when I’m in the kitchen and my staff are around. This is my job. You don’t have to like me, but you will respect me. Have I made myself clear?”
I went silent for a moment, digging my fingers into the handle of my tool bag. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lennon stood frozen for a beat. I swore she was about to call my bluff, but instead, she turned and walked back to the front line.
I watched her hips sway as she slipped through the crowd of bodies churning out plates of food. The curt warnings of “behind” she doled out were firm without being overreaching.
She grabbed a large knife, sided up to a cutting board, and started decimating everything in her wake.
It was organized chaos, a well-timed ebb and flow. She was mesmerizing, leading the charge with clear orders and a take-no-prisoners attitude.
Cooks and servers peppered her with questions, one on top of the other. She answered each one with mind-blowing efficiency, never missing a beat with her own tasks.
The kitchen was an Olympic relay, each competitor handing off the baton to the next without fumbling. It was a case study in communication and teamwork.
When those brown eyes glanced my way, I ducked behind the tilt skillet and went to work.
The tilt skillet was mostly fine, but it looked like someone had shoved it into the back wall a bit too hard after pulling it out to clean it. The shove had dented the metal panel that protected the wall from grease and steam. It bent the hinges of the cover and dislodged the tilting mechanism from the track.
“Shit—”
I was lying on my back with my feet sticking out from under the machine as I unfastened the screws when someone tripped over my ankles.
I eased up, trapping the screws between my teeth, and peered out. “Sorry, man,” I muttered as I craned forward and dragged my tool bag out of the way.
The guy was carrying an armful of dirty dishes. “No worries. ‘Preciate you gettin’ that thing working again. Maybe Chef will stop being a bitch when it’s not broken.”
I wiped the grease from my hands onto my jeans. “What was that?”
He scoffed and cocked his head back toward Lennon. “She’s got a stick up her ass or something. I thought workin’ here would be chill. Cook some steaks between smoke breaks, ya know? She’s running a fucking sweat shop.”
Didn’t like that. Not one fucking bit.
I chuckled under my breath, because the idiot clearly had no clue who he was talking to.
“I’ve worked around here for a long time,” I said as I rifled around in my tool bag to grab a fresh set of screws so I could replace the old ones. “I’ll let you in on a secret.”
He grinned. “What’s that?”
I looked him dead in the eye. “If you disrespect the women on this ranch, you’ll have hell to pay. That includes Chef Maddox.”
He sneered. “Nah. Bros before hoes. She ain’t one of them Griffiths.”
“No, but I am.”
He paled.
“So, if I tell you to respect her, you will respect her. Or you can find another job.”
I watched as he stormed off to the dish pit and dumped his haul on the kid loading the dishwasher and manning the three-compartment sink.
“What was that about?”
I nearly smacked my head on the tilt kettle beside me when Lennon appeared. “Your guy was running his mouth.”
She looked around until she spotted the idiot who made the mistake of speaking to me. “Who? Julian?”
I shrugged.
“What did he say this time?”
“Bitching about you,” I grunted as I shoved the hydraulic base of the tilt skillet back onto the tracks and gave it a test lift before securing it.
Lennon huffed. “He needs to get some new material.” She paused and watched for a moment as I finished putting the pieces back together and cleared out my tools.
“What did you say to him?”
I packed up my shit and stood shoulder to shoulder with her. “That I’m the only one who gets to bitch about you.”
“Boss,” Reed yelled from downstairs. “Door.”
I swear these cavemen stuck with single-syllable words just to piss me off.
“Hold on,” I yelled down as I grabbed a pair of sweatpants and pulled them on. I didn’t bother with a shirt.
The only people who came by the bunkhouse were family. The only reason they didn’t come in on their own was because a dozen people lived here, and at least one person was always in a constant state of undress.
I never mentioned it to my family, but a while ago, I had started getting quotes from contractors to build my own place. All my brothers had put down roots on their respective pieces of land, but I had always been happy being one of the ranch hands.
Not so much anymore.
I padded down the stairs and skidded to a halt when I spotted Lennon lingering in the open door.
She still wore her restaurant uniform, but she had taken off her hat, let her hair down, and left her crisp white chef’s coat unbuttoned. A tight tank top that showed off a slice of her stomach peeked through the open sides.
Lennon stiffened when I rounded the corner, steeling herself for battle. “I always wondered what the devil’s lair looked like.” She made a show of peering around. “It smells like a sock in here. I have to say, I expected a lot more red and orange. Maybe some pitchforks.”
“The pitchforks are in the barn. What do you want, trouble?”
She shifted, lifting the cardboard produce box in her hands. “Dinner delivery.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the door frame. “Tell me, how was your dinner? Crow, right? You’re welcome for fixing your equipment, by the way.”
She snorted. “Actually, I flexed my baking skills. Made you a humble pie since you had to set foot in my kitchen and not set it on fire.”
I reached into the box and peeled back the aluminum foil on one of the disposable metal pans. Slices of brisket with perfect smoke rings and thick bark were lined up like soldiers. Drippings pooled around them.
That was one sexy piece of meat.
“Cassandra put an order in for your house,” Lennon said as she peered over my shoulder and looked around. “Apparently, that was the deal you two struck to fix my tilt skillet.”
“Bunk house,” I muttered. “Ranch hands live here. You know, people who actually belong on a ranch.”
Lennon rolled her eyes. “Take the food before I dump it on you. I don’t want to waste it.”
I lifted the box out of her arms, careful not to touch her, but our fingers brushed.
“How much of this did you poison?” I asked as I walked it into the kitchen and set it on the island.
Lennon never moved from the doorway. “I guess we’ll get to see how much you trust me.”
“I trust you as far as I can throw you,” I said as I wandered back to the front door.
She reached out and squeezed my bicep. “If memory serves, you have no problem putting me where you want me.”
God, that felt good. My dick throbbed at the feel of her hand on my body. Sparks danced at her touch, threatening to grow into a blaze if they weren’t snuffed out.
“Go home, trouble,” I said as I backed away and grabbed the door. “Thanks for the food.”