Chapter 8 #2
Does he think he’s going to win me over by pretending to be humble?
He fucked over any chance of winning me over when he strolled into town, too big for his britches, the same air of too good for this place that Rory used to have when she came back from New York.
A shame, too, with the bone-deep attraction my system can’t seem to turn off or shake when it comes to him.
The way my nerves start zinging to life when he’s around is beyond annoying. It’s the kind of itch a hate fuck would scratch just right, but even I have standards.
The only person who has ever gotten off my shit list once they were on it was my sister, and even she is barely off it some days.
Afraid that’s where Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed lives now.
So I’ll have to settle for getting my kicks from watching Wilder kick rocks come the end of summer when he fucks off back to his precious Big Apple, or wherever is unlucky enough to get him next.
I wish I could say the rest of the tasting is a disaster, that Tracy gets food poisoning, Wanda can’t stomach the burger, and even Charlie can’t find anything nice to say about the cold dishes.
Unfortunately, my ears are subjected to undue quantities of babbling praise, more uses of the Lord’s name than in church on an Easter Sunday, and, yes, moaning throughout the entire tasting.
Luckily for me, everyone else was so far up Wilder’s ass, asking about how he cooked this, or how that drizzle was made that I don’t think any of them caught the occasional noise that came out of my own mouth completely unbidden—a whimper here, a sigh there—as I regretfully took part in sampling every item like a good manager should.
Fine. So what if his burger is different than the one Samuel always served me when I was growing up at the tables out there?
We’re still serving down home food to good people, and that’s what matters. It doesn’t have to be my dad’s recipes to carry on the legacy.
Just because there are words like “savory crepe” and “fresh greens” on the menu doesn’t mean Heights Bites isn’t going to be a place good people can unwind after a day at the factory or laboring out in the sun.
At least that’s what I’m doing my damndest to convince myself as the last of the back of house staff finish cleaning up from the tasting. Even Dishy is done for the day as they pile out the back door amongst laughs and relaxed waves.
Huffing out a breath, I head for the office upstairs, wishing the chef my sister stuck on me left with the rest of the crowd.
But, like a boil on my ass, he follows.
“Safe to say that went well.” His cheerful whistle scrapes fingernails down the chalkboards of my eardrums.
A grunt is all he gets from me.
If he wants a pat on the back or a “good boy, Chef,” he picked the wrong diner to work at.
My sneakers squeak on the final stair before landing on the boards of hardwood that make up the small office area on the top floor.
“No feedback from you, Boss?” His voice is probing, almost innocent in that way of his where everything is out in the open with him. Nothing goes unsaid.
To be fair, I’m usually an everything out in the open kinda gal too. Though most people don’t tend to appreciate the truths I lay out there.
Bitchy is the term I got the most in my younger years, and those people were not wrong. It’s a lifestyle choice for me. The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve embraced it.
You want a village bitch, I’ll show you one.
Where others are subtle, I call it like I see it. Or, you know, try to piss people off when they’ve made it onto my shit list. Insulting Wilder’s food is my best shot at doing just that.
"You want my feedback? Fine. Your food was mediocre at best, everything I tasted lacked seasoning, and I've had two-day old hot dogs that were more sophisticated."
Making it to the desk in the center of the room, I do my best to ignore his snorts of laughter, until he sobers up and hits back.
“You forget I know what your face looks like when you come.”
If my teeth weren’t ground so tightly together, my jaw might actually unhinge right now. I turn to face him, staring him down so he doesn’t think he’s winning.
“My dishes were more than just ‘fine,’ Boss. If you weren’t halfway to coming when you went back for the second bite of my pot pie—”
Dammit, I really thought no one noticed that.
“—then I’ll need to refresh on your O face, because I’m damn sure you made it at least a half dozen times today.”
“You must have mistaken it for my I’m about to vomit face. It’s what happens every time I look at you, don’t confuse the two.”
Wilder takes a step closer, his oversized body pressing into my personal space, and my feet move back instinctively, backing me into the desk.
“That right?”
Never once in my life have I been called a small woman, but his thick, 6’5” frame dwarfs me, shadowing me where he hovers above me, and I work down a swallow, determined to keep eye contact with him.
“That’s right.” I nod defiantly.
“So if I slipped my hand inside these jeans right now, you’re telling me you wouldn’t soak my fingers?”
It takes everything in me not to cross my legs and tighten my thighs against the reactions he’s creating in me.
Calling on bravado, my constant fallback, my only companion, I pray it doesn’t let me down.
“Try it and I’ll break your wrist.”
“Fuck, I love when you threaten me, Boss. Gets me hard when you get all feisty on me. You wanna see me come, threaten me with violence, bella.”
His eyes dip down to my lips, which I realize now are wet thanks to my traitorous tongue darting out to lick them as he spoke.
“Bet you taste better than anything I served today.”
“Bet you’re never gonna find out,” I breathe.
“You’ll be willing to put aside that gorgeous pride and ask me for it before long. I’ll be here when you do.”
“Spoken like someone who forgets he only has a trial period through the summer. By the time hell freezes over, you’ll be long gone.”
“I’m a patient man when I know what I want.”
Why is that hot?
My body betrays me, my lips parting, thighs spreading as the desk catches my weight when I slump back onto it.
“Go home, Wilder.”
“Got work to do.”
Strolling around to the table along one wall that serves as an overflow administrative workspace, I try not to watch those broad shoulders and thick thighs as he settles in on the stool with some paperwork.
Sitting down at my own desk, I huff again when I realize I’ve opened and closed the same tab four times in a row, mind completely erased of whatever the fuck I came up here to do.
Scheduling?
Payroll?
Planning a murder?
“Assuming you’re not recanting on your approval after that tasting,” Wilder’s deep voice interrupts the tumbleweeds rolling around in my brain, “I’m going to place the final orders for opening week. Can I run this by you?”
Right.
Another aspect of this job that requires us to share the same molecules of space.
If my body got the memo on how much we hate Wilder Amante, that would make this slightly less unpleasant.
Instead, I have to make it through the entire conversation with my cells humming, my nipples tightening, and my core clenching from the proximity of the finest asshole I’ve had the displeasure of grinding on.
Standing next to him, I try to watch as he leans over the desk, marking up the inventory list, but I can’t say I’m as focused as I could be.
I’ve had good connections with partners before, ones that altered my physical chemistry around them for a while after we stopped hooking up, but never from before we even got together.
Chalking it up to another sign the universe hates me, I do my best to ignore the heat rising up my chest, the dampening between my thighs as the gravel of his voice licks over my skin even with the most mundane words.
Beets.
My nipples perk up.
Sirloin.
My mouth waters, but not for food.
Dairy.
I can feel my heartbeat between my legs.
Like I’m not already messed up enough, this has got me wondering if I have some sort of food kink I never knew about, but staring at the images on the supplier website, nope, not even the perkiest of eggplants or cucumbers does it for me.
The new girl in town, Amelia, would probably say it’s a cosmic joke on me, some sort of karma.
Maybe the caterpillar I accidentally rolled over with my bike in grade school was the catalyst for some messed up butterfly effect that ended up starting a war in some distant nation decades ago and this is finally my punishment?
A Pavlovian level attraction to the man I can’t stand. The man who works for me, undermining my every goal with this restaurant and all my hopes for its legacy. And who gets under my skin like no one else ever has and likes it.
And I thought being almost forty, still working at the same grocery store since high school, and not having gotten laid in three years was embarrassing.
If I’m not careful, I’ll find myself making a mess on his leg again, like I’m a dog in heat, not a grown ass woman with a fully developed sense of self-worth and an entire house full of plants waiting for me back home.
When we’re done, he turns back to the counter he’s been working from. “What’s this?” Wilder holds up a printed sheet that was on the work surface for him to see.
“And here I thought those eyes would be good for more than just staring at what you’ll never have. It’s a schedule.”
“Aw, bella, only one of us is in a delusion over what’s between us, and it ain’t me. The sooner you admit you want me back, the sooner the real fun begins.”
I’m not sure if gritting my teeth can stop my cheeks from turning pink, but I try it.
“And I see it’s a schedule. I asked you to make sure Charlie came in early to prep, this has him coming in a half hour before opening.”
“Yeah. Early.”
“That’s when the line cook would come in for lunch service. Prep cook needs to be here at least four hours before that.”