Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Draven
Iam not a soft man.
In fact, a lot of my employees would refer to me as a tyrant.
They would be right. Now, I’m barking at the sous chef to hurry up and plate the carre d’agneu, also known as rack of lamb and he has grown pale in the face, his hands clumsy as they drizzle the sauce that took me years of my life to perfect.
Yes, I believe he would call me a tyrant.
That’s what I am.
That is the reputation I’ve built and grown comfortable with.
For her, for this Claire, however…
I find I am feeling rather soft.
In the center of my chest, at least.
There is another part of me that is unfortunately quite hard from watching her move so gracefully all evening—a fact that disgusts me to no end, because she is too young for a thirty-two-year-old man.
Far too young. Inexperienced in the workplace, too, although she doesn’t let that slow her down.
She doesn’t complain or stop for a well-deserved breath or flinch when the busboy enters the kitchen and noisily unloads a fresh mess into the sink.
She just keeps scrubbing, like a tiny Cinderella, her blonde hair steadily coming loose from her bun.
I should be concentrating on the meal service.
Food is my life.
But I can’t help but notice that the apron strings irritate the back of her delicate neck until finally, she folds the apron down, leaving her in a tight white t-shirt, the thin material straining over her tits.
And when the front of that shirt grows wet from the act of washing dishes, well…
my cock can do nothing but stiffen in my trousers.
Where did you come from, Claire?
And who the fuck mistreated you?
Toward the end of dinner service, my brother, Pierre, waltzes into the kitchen with a clipboard nestled into the crook of his arm.
No doubt he has been keeping track of profits all night, like the greedy bastard that he is.
Still, as always, when I look at Pierre, guilt swamps my gut with such severity, such horrendous weight, that I press my hand to the spot.
“We have a very satisfied dining room,” he crows, eliciting a cheer from my staff. He gives each of them a tight smile, before turning his derision on me. “Mr. Brilliant strikes again, I suppose. Although I’m still waiting on the new fall menu. Has inspiration struck yet, Draven?”
I glance at the pot on the stove which contains the new sauce I’ve been experimenting with, to no avail.
Nothing seems to make it right. “It will strike when it strikes,” I respond, repeating the same phrase I’ve repeated night after night for weeks.
“If you don’t mind, we have a service to complete. ”
Pierre smirks and turns his head—
And I watch with a hot, cloying irritation as my little Cinderella catches his eye.
My stomach sours at the blatant interest in his expression.
“Well, well, well…” Pierre says, sauntering in the dishwasher’s direction. “I had a feeling you were hiding something luscious beneath that coat.”
My brother’s words are still hanging in the air when I step in between him and Claire, a strange satisfaction coming over me when she instantly snuggles into my back.
Oh…shit, that’s nice. Too nice. “We’re not going to speak to our employees like that,” I say to Pierre, lowering my voice to add, “Especially this one.”
His laugh is incredulous. “You’re reprimanding me about how I speak to employees?”
Point taken. “There’s a difference in demanding excellence from my staff and how you’ve just spoken to her.
And you fucking know it.” Her small hand twists in the back of my white chef’s coat and something is now crushing my windpipe.
What the hell is happening to me? I don’t know, but this girl needs protecting, and I can’t fathom ignoring the responsibility.
Not claiming it with both hands. “Don’t let it happen again. ”
There’s a dangerous glint in my brother’s eye. “Are you calling dibs?”
My temper spikes more dramatically than it ever has in the kitchen—and that is really saying something, because I once got so angry over burned coq au vin, I shattered a porcelain Dutch oven my knee. “How about this? If you speak to her again, Pierre, I will dislocate your jaw.”
His face grows blotchy with anger, yet he laughs.
“Wow. It appears we’ve found the one thing Draven finds more enticing than food.
” He sidles in closer. “I’m going to let you get away with embarrassing me in front of my employees this time.
Just remember that you owe me. We’d be running this restaurant with our mother if you hadn’t killed her. ”
The girl stiffens at my back, gasping lightly.
My stomach plummets, but I hold on to my composure, like I do every time Pierre brings up our mother.
And how she died. My fault. Yes, it was entirely my fault.
And Pierre couldn’t be more accurate in saying that I owe him.
That onus on my head is why I never leave Tartine’s kitchen.
Why I feel so much pressure to make it succeed.
Because I can’t give Pierre back our mother, but I can give him success.
“Are we done here?” I ask my brother, my jaw glued shut.
He gives me a blasé smile, as if he didn’t just verbally stab me in the throat.
“Yes, I think we’re done.” He peeks past me, trying to get a look at Claire, but a territorial growl rumbles out of me, causing him to flinch back.
“I guess I’ll go back to manning the front of house.
” He takes a few backwards steps out of my orbit, then spins on a heel exiting the kitchen.
Against my better judgment, I turn to look down at Claire, shocked by how badly I want to pick up her hands and kiss the little scars I noticed earlier.
She’s looking up at me with her wide blue eyes, so innocent compared to the tightly peaked nipples outlined at the front of her damp t-shirt. “Thank you, chef.”
Oh, goddamn. That sweet little whisper combined with her courageous chin raise?
That’s the moment I admit to myself how badly I want to fuck her raw.
Meaning, I’m no better than my brother. A tough pill to swallow.
No, I need to resist.
Claire is a too-young, too-hot distraction from the fall menu that needs to be perfected now.
I’ve been working on my new sauce too long, and the city is so competitive, the clientele always wanting something groundbreaking.
New. This girl making my dick hard in the middle of dinner service is the absolute last thing I need when my priority is the restaurant.
But banging her brains out in the locker room, the way I’m imagining myself doing, wouldn’t be a simple transaction of flesh.
Nope. That truth is branded into my gut—and I never feel this certain about anything but cooking.
Women are usually an afterthought to me. An occasional indulgence.
But this one? Claire?
Her plush mouth and perky tits are making me feel like I have a fever. A righteous need that deepens by the minute—and I need to kill the urge to take an employee to bed. As in, now. I can’t let my brother, or my mother’s memory down, more than I already have.
The smart thing to do would be fire her.
But I can’t fathom never seeing her again.
Or sending her out into a world full of men like my brother.
Absolutely fucking not.
“Get back to work, Claire,” I growl.
Her chest dips gratefully. “Yes, chef.”
But despite the warning I issue myself, I continue to watch Claire all night, her shirt growing progressively soaked until I can see her little, rose-colored nipples, the shadow of her navel.
And when everyone leaves for the night and she walks into the empty locker room, I find myself following, the sound of a bell tolling in my ears.
Somehow, I know I’m a dead man walking.