Chapter 6
James
It’s been three days, and I still haven’t brought up our shared history.
I know she’s expecting it. Every time I turn toward her, every time I open my mouth to speak, she gets this look. Half fear, half anticipation. Like she’s bracing herself. Like she knows the conversation is coming and dreads it.
I lean back in my swivel chair. I’m in my office, a short hallway from the main kitchen.
It’s the lull between lunch and dinner service. I’m using the time to catch up on vendor contracts and other tasks that need my attention which I’ve been putting off.
The rational part of me knows I should just call her into my office and get it over with.
The other part, the one I’m less proud of, has been enjoying watching her wait.
It’s sadistic. I know.
But there's something darkly satisfying about the way her body betrays her when I approach. The leap of fear in her eyes. The pulse jumping at the base of her throat, visible and frantic. The slight tension in her shoulders as she prepares for whatever I'm about to say.
And then, when I ask about something related to the food instead, she deflates. Relief floods her features, before she catches herself and schools them back to neutral.
She can't anticipate me. Can't predict what I'm going to say or when I'm going to say it.
Something about Harper ignites this feral side in me.
I love absorbing her every reaction. Relish how she’s actively trying to please me.
How she pushes herself to meet my standards.
She works hard to deliver on my expectations.
And when I criticize her, she deflates, only to light up at my praise. Her responsiveness is irresistible.
I thrive on her every reaction.
Each time I challenge her, she juts out her little chin, and her eyes flash with anger. She’s passionate, defiant, and stubborn enough to not give up until she’s delivered on my request, no matter how outrageous it is.
The combination tugs at a part of me that’s been dormant for too long.
It makes me want to provoke her and reward her. It makes me want to protect her. Control her.
I like to rile her up. I enjoy seeing her purse her lips and frown so that cute furrow appears between her eyebrows.
I like her flustered. But I love it when she recovers. When that backbone snaps into place and she stands her ground. That’s when I get rock hard.
When she blooms under my praise, it challenges me to not stop until she submits to me.
It makes me want to make her mine.
Even thinking about it drains the blood to my groin. Thankfully, my desk covers it.
I've spent my life controlling my emotions. Every reaction measured. Every response calculated. Every feeling locked down so tightly, I sometimes forget it's there.
But this?
Watching Harper Richie get frazzled because of me?
I thrive on it.
Which means, I need to have this conversation before I become the kind of man who weaponizes anticipation just to see someone's pulse spike.
Sadly, even for me, I can’t delay the inevitable further. So, I pick up the phone and call the kitchen. I tell the line chef who picks up to send Harper to my office.
As I wait for her, I look around my office.
Most chef’s offices have a reputation for being cluttered cubby holes. But I refused to compromise. I’ve managed to carve out a space bigger than the norm.
There are no paintings on the walls.
The surface of my dark wood desk carries no photos. It’s clean, but for a laptop and a yellow legal pad beside it.
It’s austere, but that’s how I like it.
There's a tap, and the door opens.
She walks in and takes a seat, then straightens her spine. Only, she spoils it by suddenly yawning. She clamps her mouth shut, but not fast enough.
It’s been a long day, and we’re only halfway through it.
Her thick blonde hair is piled up under her chef’s skull cap.
She’s wearing her chef jacket, which is stained with splashes of food. It pulls across her ample bosom and flares at her curvy hips. I love that she looks like she samples what she cooks and enjoys it.
She also has a Band-Aid on her finger. Small cuts and burns on our hands are a part of a chef’s life. But for some reason, the thought of her delicate fingers being hurt makes my guts churn.
With the dark circles under her eyes and hollows under her cheekbones, she looks bone tired. A flash of empathy grips me. I shove it aside.
If she wants to make it in this profession, she needs to toughen up. She needs to be able to match the stamina of the best in the field. It’s why I push her so. And challenge her to deliver beyond her best.
“If you’re tired, we can talk tomorrow.” I drag my thumb under my lip.
Instantly, her gaze goes to my mouth. Her pupils dilate. The pulse at the base of her throat flutters.
This chemistry between us is invigorating. It makes me feel alive in the way I felt when I first met her in the nightclub.
As if she’s caught herself staring, she jerks her chin up. She must see the challenge on my face, for anger flickers in her eyes, and she sits up straight.
There she is. My girl. I’m glad my words challenged her to work through her fatigue.
“I’d rather get this over with.” She folds her arms in her lap.
“You make it sound like a trial.”
“Isn’t it?” She juts out her chin.
I hold her green eyes for a few seconds, reading the determination and the discomfort there. I empathize. We need to clear the air between us if we’re to work together.
Even though I’d rather keep my restaurant service going through a power failure than sit across from her and talk about what happened when we last met.
But there’s no escaping it. And I’m not a coward.
“I owe you an apology.”
“For what?” Her eyes flash.
There’s pain in them. And anger.
Which I deserve. “I put an end to things in a way that hurt you. I wasn’t ready for a—"
“Relationship. Yeah, I know.” She looks away and composes herself. When she looks back at me, her eyes are remote.
“You were very clear that you didn’t want one. It was my fault that I hoped you’d feel the connection between us the way I did.”
I did feel it. But I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I knew, if we slept together, I’d be the one getting attached.
I’d watched too many of my brothers in the Marines nurse broken hearts, and I knew what a lack of focus could cost. I needed to stay sharp, in control, and I wasn’t about to let myself lose that.
So, I forced myself to walk away.
“It’s never too late to say sorry.” I soften my voice to soothe her. It’s an automatic reaction. One I don’t question.
She blinks, clearly taken aback by my apology.
Then she firms her lips. “You did the right thing. If you hadn’t left that day, I would not have pursued my career with so much vengeance. ‘Course I never thought I’d be working for you either.”
Our gazes meet, hold. Awareness prickles under my skin. Something heavy laces the air between us.
The memories of her taste, of how she felt in my arms, her little moans as I kissed her all those years ago crowd my mind. My muscles bunch. My breathing grows shallow.
I know she, too, must be remembering how much we both enjoyed spending time together that night. How we clicked on so many different levels.
Could I have acted differently?
Should I have given whatever was between us a chance? I push the thought away.
What’s done is done. I’m not one to regret the past. What I do regret is that I let her think that I walked away from her because she was a virgin.
Because I was worried that if we slept together she might get too attached to me.
When really, it was I who was in danger of getting too attached to her.
I was protecting myself from being hurt. That’s why I left.
I rub the back of my neck.
The movement pulls the sleeve of my chef jacket tight across my arm. Her gaze drops to my bicep before she can stop herself. Her throat works as she swallows.
The reaction lands low in my gut.
Damn.
Her every response feeds that hunger in me. Something I’m not sure how much longer I can keep contained.
I lower my arm to my side.
The movement seems to snap her out of it. Her eyes flick back to my face, and her expression shutters, as if she just realized I noticed her reaction.
For a second, she just stares at me, those green eyes wide and bright.
Then she tosses her head. “My only regret is that we didn’t get the chance to find out how we could have been together, and that will always haunt me.”
Sadness glimmers in her eyes. Hurt paints her features.
Why does her being upset affect me so much? My chest tightens, my heart thundering within. I draw in a breath, and my lungs burn.
It’s a sign that my emotions are dangerously close to the surface. I need to find a way to get them back under control.
I tap my pen three times on the desk.
The familiarity of the gesture calms me. I find I can breathe again.
This is why I left. She triggered an emotional intensity in me that made me feel out of control. I’m better equipped to manage it now. Enough that I invited her back into my life.
“I did the right thing.” I say it aloud for myself as much as for her.
She watches my hand with curiosity.
I stop tapping and place the pen down on the desk.
Not too many people notice my little tells that I use to cope with my OCD. But she did.
“It’s water under the bridge.” She raises her gaze to my face again. “You gave me a job, despite our history together. I’m grateful for that.”
She doesn’t want to talk about what happened that night. That’s good.
We didn’t have a relationship. We didn’t even sleep together, yet she left an undeniable impression on me.
Now, here she is, working for me. I’d be lying if I said I'm not aware of her. That I don’t sneak covert glances at her. Enough that I end up directing her far more than I’ve done any other member of my staff.
And when she got pissed off and snapped at me…I was surprised and impressed. I know I have a reputation in the culinary world.
Most of my team defer to me because they want to please me. They rarely contradict me.
She, however, stands up for herself, and that’s refreshing. And bloody captivating. Somehow, the more she loses her cool and is on the verge of cursing me, the more beautiful she appears.
It makes me want to challenge her even more.
"I’m not going to be easy on you."
"No? I’m so shocked.” She widens her gaze. “Not.” She gives me a sweet smile. “Bring it. I like hard things.”
I freeze. Was that innuendo? Nah.
I allow the silence to continue.
I can see the moment she realizes how that sounded, for her cheeks redden. “I…I just mean… I can do hard things.”
I raise my eyebrows.
Her expression turns mortified. She looks like she wants to sink through the floor.
That she can display her vulnerability so openly turns the hunger inside me into something that threatens to consume me. Fucking hell. I need to find a way to control myself better around her.
“I…I mean that—” she begins again, then stops.
I merely look at her inquiringly. I could be gracious and put her out of her misery, but hey, I’m not a gentleman.
“I meant to say that I’m up to the challenge… Boss.” She seems relieved that she got that off her chest.
"Just because you’re Phoenix’s best friend, doesn’t mean I’m going to extend concessions to you.”
“You bet.” She tosses her head. “Next?"
I tilt my head. No one uses that tone of voice with me. But I find, coming from her, I relish the challenge.
"I’ll be constantly testing you. You’re my sous chef; I need someone reliable. Someone who can steer the kitchen in my absence. Someone I can trust with replicating the exact same quality of food when I’m not around."
"That’s my goal. It’s the only way to ensure that when the Michelin inspectors come around on a surprise visit the food delivers.”
I scrutinize her features, take in her sincerity, then jerk my chin.
"Good. Tuesdays are our days off. I expect you to be here at seven a.m. every other day."
"Of course." She rises to her feet and gathers her coat and her purse. "Anything else?"
Clearly, she wants to be gone. For some reason, it makes me want to push her a little more. How much can she take before she breaks?
"I’m revamping the menu. I need you to come up with a draft of a new one with complete concepts. By tomorrow morning.”
I’ve been planning on doing this, which is not a lie. Although I would’ve worked on it for a few days. Doing it overnight is a stretch. But I’m curious about how she’s going to react.
I’m not disappointed.
Her cheeks flush. “It takes weeks, months sometimes, to come up with a new menu. And you want me to do it overnight?”
I adjust my pen on the desk, then touch my fingertips together, thrice. “Is that going to be a problem?” I raise an eyebrow, making sure the challenge is visible in my eyes.
She swallows. The pulse at the base of her throat speeds up. Her hair almost quivers with anger.
She’s magnificent. For someone uncomfortable with emotions, I sure love riling her up and watching her come close to exploding.
She opens her mouth, and I’m sure she’s going to snap at me, but all she says is, “Of course, not.”
She heads for the door, and I call out to her.
“Oh, and Richie?”
She pauses.
“Remember the cardinal rule of my kitchen. Something I should have mentioned earlier, but…never too late, I suppose.”
Her shoulders rise and fall like she’s drawing in a deep breath and calming herself. When she looks at me over her shoulder, her features are composed.
Damn, she’s good.
“If you follow that rule, we’ll get along just fine.” I allow myself a tiny twitch of my lips, one that’s almost a smile but doesn’t reach my eyes, and which comes across as even more threatening.
I know, because I see the impact it has on my team.
It doesn’t fail.
Her eyes widen. Her face pales. “Wh-what’s that?”
I knock my knuckles three times on my desk. “Don’t talk back to the boss.”