Chapter Eight
Ruby
I hold my breath as Garett slowly peels the plaster off and unwraps the bandage. His fingers are coarse, as expected. My grandma called it asbestos fingers—the effect of touching burning things so often that you burn off your fingertips. There’s rarely anything glamorous about working in a kitchen, yet I’ve smiled more this afternoon than in months, even with Garett around.
“Kath did a good job on your bandage,” Garett murmurs.
Our thighs are close but not touching as we perch on stools in the dining area. My pencil skirt stretches uncomfortably over my bottom, which is hidden from his view but still makes me feel more on show than I like. Amber is a curve-free size ten, but I’m nearer fourteen. We’ve always been jealous of each other’s bodies. I can’t keep wearing her clothes, but I can’t find the time or money to go shopping while caring for my sister and running the cookery school.
The skirt stretches, but it can only do so much. Garett looks up as I pull the hem over my knees to my thighs to allow a little freedom.
“It’s Amber’s,” I mutter, but he doesn’t respond. He’s not what I expected from his videos and the couple of articles I’ve read. He’s got the sexy, brooding thing down, but his attitude goes from frosty to fake-friendly at a moment’s notice.
He unravels the rest of the bandage. Should I talk to him as a colleague or as a guy who has treated me like crap for most of the day? My fangirling of him stopped the moment he was a dick to me, although I presume his redressing the bandage is his apology.
He eases the gauze away from my cut, and I hiss loudly.
“Sorry.” His voice is deep and throbs nearly as much as my palm. Blood congeals around the cut like it had kept bleeding after Kath bandaged it. Wounds and blood don’t freak me out, but my stomach rolls. “It needs cleaning and a new bandage.”
He gets the items he needs and returns swiftly. Sweat trickles down my back. I’m so hot from hunger and seeing the blood that I take my chance to readjust my skirt again, but I can’t do anything. I need to get it off. He turns as I fan myself between my legs. Fuck. His eyes are wide, and I mumble something about heat and hunger. He leaves again. This time, he returns with focaccia.
“Thanks.” I shove a large piece of the bread straight into my mouth.
A moan nearly slips out. The bread is like heaven, with a little bit of salt and a tease of rosemary.
He shrugs. “It’s just leftovers from my demonstration.” He opens my hands and positions a warm, soapy cloth above the wound. “This is going to sting a little.”
He draws the soapy, warm cloth across my wound. I jerk in his hand, but he squeezes my fingers reassuringly. “Keep eating the focaccia. It will help.” His voice is gentle, and I lean closer, my stomach flopping.
His jaw moves up and down as he chews gum. The mint scent radiates from him, combining with the cinnamon that teased me every time he passed me that day. The movement adds to his brooding sexiness, and I kick myself. I’m here for work and have seen too much of his jerk side today. This misplaced attraction is from a lack of good sex and meeting a chef I’ve fantasised about before. Nothing more.
“I know you don’t live here, as I know all the bakeries nearby. So what brought you to our little cookery school?” he asks as he dries the wound before adding antiseptic cream. I don’t jerk this time. He blows on the antiseptic. It’s just to dry it, but his breath on my skin makes my stomach coil, and I pull my lower lip between my teeth and suck it.
He glances up and catches my movement. His eyes lock with mine, and all the air is yanked out of the room. “I was surprised to see you running it today.”
“I could tell from how you lost your shit,” I reply, my lips quirking.
Garett harrumphs but doesn’t say any more. A curl of brown hair falls across his forehead. It’s a cute addition to his stern face. Hints of a tattoo peek out from under his right sleeve. His green checked shirt is on display now, and his cookery school apron hangs up on a hook at the side of the room. His shirt grips his muscles like a second skin, and he fills out his jeans in a way that necessitates the internal reminder that I’ve just broken up with Neil, and any crushes, especially on this jerk, would be dangerous.
A whirring dishwasher is the only sound as he covers the wound. He works delicately but efficiently. I wait for pain, but it doesn’t come. His fingers are strokes of soft fur against my skin. My limbs tingle, and goosebumps cover my arms. A shiver hits the back of my neck as he secures the gauze. I manage to keep my body still, although I bite the flesh of my cheeks to do it.
I rush my words. “Amber wanted someone urgently because her doctors said she needed to rest. I was keen to get away, so here I am.”
I shove more bread into my gob. His fingers brush my skin as he wraps a fresh bandage. The movement tightens the coil in my belly.
Stay away from men. That was the rule Amber and I decided on last night after I arrived and told her what Neil did. Since then, the twenty unanswered calls and fifteen messages he’s left me have convinced me further. Garett is an expert chef, and if all I do is learn from him, then fantastic.
This is the result of eating his orgasm-worthy bread while having his hands on my skin. That, coupled with some horny rival bullshit and the buzz from turning around a crappy first day into an awesome one, has thrown me off-kilter.
“I’ll be here until Christmas, probably, if not longer.” I force colleague-like conversation.
“Is Amber okay?” His tone is brusque. “Kath said she’d gone off because of the twins.”
“She’s doing okay, all things considered. The pregnancy has taken its toll, but Mum and Dad will be on call until her husband, Kalen, returns.”
“How did you get this scar?” Garett runs a fingertip across the silver slash on the back of my hand.
“I burnt my hand when I was baking. It was on the first batch of Naughty Treats cookies. It’s like a fond memory now, but it hurt like a bitch.”
I briefly smile at the memory, although I need a new focus now that the company and my friendship with Viv are dead. I can’t buy her out. I don’t have enough money for a new skirt, let alone a business. Maybe I should enter the competition Betty mentioned. It would show my family that I’m back and ready to rebuild our relationship, too.
“All the best chefs have scars.” Garett holds out his hands. Where mine carry the odd freckle, his are tanned the colour of golden sugar. Kitchen work rarely involves tanning time, but he’s probably earned enough to travel the world. Garett shows me his thumb. The skin pinches to form a marked line on the pad. He famously has an unexplained one on his face, although his beard mostly covers it. “I got this from the opening day of my restaurant. I’d never chopped so many onions, and my partner asked me a question, and bam, sharp knife into my finger.”
“When did you run a restaurant?” I’ve read a little about Garett’s career, although there’s not enough online to get a complete timeline.
“A while back,” he replies sternly. “But we live and learn.”
I fight not to fill the silence, instead reaching for the last bits of the bread. He must have had reasons for leaving wherever he worked before, but it can’t be because he had a burning need to work in a cookery school. He could be setting up his own place or leading at an exclusive restaurant.
“Kath said you’d worked in a cooperative bakery,” he comments.
“Yeah, until…well, until yesterday, but that’s the past.”
“And your Naughty Treats? What’s that about?” he presses, his fingers lingering on the secure bandage.
“A business I ran with a friend, but that’s over now.”
“Because?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” I say with a sigh. “It’s been a difficult couple of days. Sorry.”
He holds his hands up in surrender. “You don’t need to apologise to me. I’m one of the reasons for your difficult day today, aren’t I?”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Just so you know, you can talk to me if you need to. I know I’m an arsehole, but…” Surely, the great Garett Kelsey isn’t about to apologise. “Hold on, did you say Mum and Dad?” he asks, referring to my earlier comment. “You’re Amber’s sister? You’re a Cloud?”
I nod.
He rears back. “Is that the time?” He’s not looking at a watch. “The bandage should hold at least another day, giving enough time for the cut to heal. But be careful in the shower.” His jaw moves as fast as his hands as he tidies up the first aid kit.
My brows knit as he whirls around the room, collecting his belongings before rushing to the back room. I make a mental note to ask Amber about Garett’s relationship with our parents. They’re the most incredible people. They treated my awful ex with respect, and even with everything, they never stopped loving me.
Suddenly, a fluffball, the colour of freshly baked blondies, bounces through the dining room.
“Cookie,” a woman calls across the kitchen. The pup barks and spins in circles like all its birthdays have come at once. It’s a beaut of a dog with more energy than fifteen clowns on coke.
“Hello, lit—”
It makes a beeline for me. It jumps in the air, flies towards me, and takes me down.