Chapter 11 #2
It doesn’t seem to mean anything to her, so she’s not from the cooking world.
She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I need to complete my conversation with James.”
My first instinct is to turn and leave. But then I remember Ollie’s dazed features. Nope, this can’t wait.
I square my shoulders and fix a pleasant smile on my lips.
“It’s the middle of the working day. I have something important I need to bring up with James.”
Her forehead wrinkles.
Damn, she really is stunning, with that build supermodels favor. Hang on, is she a supermodel?
Not that she looks familiar. But I’m not up to date with the world of fashion. I live and breathe food. I also love to sample what I cook. As my curves will attest to. But I refuse to apologize for that. What kind of a chef would I be if I didn’t enjoy eating, eh?
I fold my arms across my chest and keep my expression professional. “This can’t wait.”
She turns to James. “Can you ask her to give us a moment?”
Can’t fault her for her polite request. Why couldn’t she be more like a caricature villain? At least, that would have given me the opportunity to aim catty remarks at her in my head. But no. Even the women in James’ life are, perfect.
James looks from me to her, a slightly amused look in his eyes. “It is the middle of a working day,” he concedes.
Is he taking my side?
“Richie, you should be at your station.” He scowls.
Maybe not.
“And I’ll be there. Just as soon as I discuss this emergency with you.” I firm my lips, signaling he’s not getting rid of me that easily.
The bored look in his eyes deepens. Is he going to tell me to piss off?
Instead, he nods toward the exit.
“Angelina, you need to go.”
She blows out a breath. Seems disappointed, but resigned. She bends to kiss his lips.
That twist in my stomach intensifies into a burn.
Only, he moves his head, so she brushes his cheek.
The burn fades at once. I don’t want to examine my reaction too closely.
She picks up her clutch and walks past me. As she does, she smiles. I find myself smiling back. She actually seems like a nice woman.
By the time I look at The Ice Commander, he’s typing out something on his keyboard.
It’s a reassuringly normal thing to do. He is like the rest of us. He has to send emails too. More likely, he’s busy firing someone else at the other end.
A giggle wells up. I manage to choke it down, but he must hear it, for he looks up and arches an eyebrow.
The authority in that gesture causes my stomach to quiver. With uncertainty. Not with lust. Nope. I’m not turned on by his cold, bored demeanor at all. Not at all.
“May I?” I nod toward the seat.
“You may not.”
My jaw drops. How rude of him. I wonder if he’s doing it just to shock me? I decide to roll with it and hold onto my temper. I need to coax The Ice Commander to thaw a little.
“Was that your…girlfriend?” The question is out before I can stop it.
He looks at me with a quizzical look. He doesn’t seem put off by my question.
I raise my hand. “Ignore that; it was inappropriate.”
He searches my features, and one side of his mouth twists in the James’ version of a smirk.
“She’s a woman, who’s also my friend,” he explains like I’m five.
I flush. Serves me right for asking. Anyway, it’s not my business who he dates, is it? I decide to push on with the reason for my visit.
“I, uh, want to talk to you about Ollie.”
He inclines his head. Curiosity filters into his eyes. I take it as permission to inch toward him.
Every inch of the office feels like him. Controlled, precise, unmistakably his.
He’s seated behind the desk while I’m standing, technically looming over him.
It makes no difference. He still dominates the room.
The air seems to shift around him. The pace, the mood, the temperature, he controls it all without moving a muscle. There’s no question who holds the power here.
I told myself I wouldn't allow myself to respond to his presence. But I realize now, I was delusional.
It’s impossible for me to see him and not have a visceral response.
My palms grow damp. My knees threaten to give way. I reach the straight-backed chair opposite his desk and grip it for support.
“Uh…” I clear my throat. “He has a sick mother.”
“So?”
The word lands flat. No inflection. No sympathy. Just… "So?”
I swallow. "He's been spending time at the hospital taking care of her. Trying to arrange extra help so someone can stay with her while he comes in to work. That's why he's been off his game."
"Your point being?"
Is he serious?
"I…" I force myself to meet his eyes. "I don't think you should fire him."
"Oh?" Something gleams in his eyes. Something that makes my stomach flip. "What would you rather have me do?"
"I think you should cut him some slack."
His lips curl. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile. Something darker. More dangerous.
Liquid heat surges through my veins.
Why, oh why do I find this man so attractive? He’s mocking me, and I’m getting stupidly turned on. I need help. An intervention, maybe.
“N-no, that’s not what I mean,” I splutter aloud.
“Then what do you mean?”
He knows exactly what I mean.
He's deliberately misunderstanding me. Playing with me. Watching me stumble over my words while he sits there looking like some perfectly tailored predator who's just cornered his prey.
"All I'm saying is…" I force my voice steady. "Go easy on him. Just until he's back on his feet."
His gaze narrows.
Something flashes in his eyes. Anger, maybe. Or something worse.
My mouth goes dry. My palms start to sweat.
He's looking at me like he’s deciding whether to pounce or circle.
“You want me to reward incompetence?” he asks slowly.
I straighten my spine. "By extending your understanding, you'd be ensuring his loyalty. And you don't want to lose him. He's a good worker. I know you won't regret it."
The silence that follows is deafening.
He goes very, very still.
"Is that your advice?" His voice drops. Dangerous. Quiet.
The kind of quiet that has my hackles rising and makes me very aware that I’m in the presence of a predator.
My stomach twists. I want to pivot and run out. But I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to let him know that his overbearing dominant persona is having the intended effect of making me want to lower my eyes and drop to my knees and agree to anything he asks of me.
I tighten my fingers around the back of the chair and manage to choke out: “It’s j-just a suggestion.”
“Oh?” There's so much scorn packed into that single syllable, I feel it cut into my skin. His face is a mask. Perfectly controlled. Perfectly blank. But his eyes—
His eyes are burning. Cold fire. The kind that destroys everything in its path.
I stiffen. Every muscle in my body locks.
This is it. This is where he dismantles me. Where the Ice Commander lives up to every terrifying story I've heard about him. Where he takes me apart piece by piece, with surgical precision, until there's nothing left but the smoking ruins of my confidence.
I brace for it. Wait for the first cut.
But then he drawls, "Maybe you should get your facts right first, Ms. Richie."
I blink. What?
He returns to his keyboard. Starts typing again like I'm not even standing here. Like he didn't just drop that cryptic statement and leave me scrambling to decode it.
I stand there, mouth half open, brain completely offline.
What facts? What did I get wrong?
And why is he looking at his screen like this conversation is over when I, clearly, don't understand what just happened?
"I—" I start.
“That’s all.”
A part of me can’t believe that he dismissed me like he’s the principal and I’m an errant student. On the other hand, I can’t wait to get out of here.
I turn toward the door, pulse hammering, face burning, completely and utterly lost. But also, glad to make my escape.
What just happened?
I wander out of the room.
Ollie’s waiting for me, his young face filled with anxiety. “Everything okay? Why did you ask me to wait?”
“I’m sorry, Ollie, I tried, but I couldn’t convince him to not fire you.”
He looks taken aback, then relaxes his shoulders. “Oh, but you didn’t have to.”
“What do you mean?” I frown.
"James asked me if something was wrong. Said my performance had dropped.
" Ollie shifts his weight on his feet. "When I told him about my mum being unwell, that I was trying to juggle hospital visits and find care for her…
He told me to take the rest of the week off.
Stay with her until I sort out a caregiver, so I can bring her home. "
I stare at him. "He gave you time off?"
"Full salary. Days aren't deducted from my annual leave." Ollie's voice cracks slightly. "And he said he'd cover the cost of the caregiver. Not a loan. Just…cover it."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
"What?" I blink. Once. Twice. "James said that? James Hamilton said that?"
"I know." Ollie lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously wet. "I was overwhelmed. Honestly, I still am. Turns out the Ice Commander isn't quite what we all take him to be."
"No shit."
My stomach drops.
Oh God.
No wonder he looked ready to murder me when I started spouting off about compassion and loyalty and cutting people slack. No wonder that flash of anger lit up his eyes.
I stood before him—in his office—and lectured him about understanding and empathy while he'd already done everything I was demanding he do. And more.
He'd already taken care of Ollie. Quietly. Without announcement or fanfare or expecting gratitude.
And I assumed the worst of him. Assumed he was cold. Heartless. The kind of man who'd fire someone for having a sick mother without a second thought.
Heat floods my face. Pure, unadulterated shame.
"I need to apologize." I wish I could sink through the floor, I’m so embarrassed. "I need to apologize to him right now."
Ollie winces. “I don’t envy you.”
“Me neither.” I hunch my shoulders. I need to march back in there and tell him I’m sorry for my harsh words. I need to do it before I lose my courage.
The thought makes me almost faint with fear.
“Sorry, Harper.” Ollie squeezes my arm. “And thanks for going to bat for me.” He turns and walks off.
I draw in a few breaths: one, two, three. Rolling my shoulders and shaking out my arms. I need to own up when I make a mistake.
I turn toward the office and reach for the door, when it opens.
James fills the doorway. My momentum carries me forward, and I slam into his massive chest before I can stop myself.
Oh.
It feels like I hit a brick wall. A living, breathing, brick wall. Heat spools off his body and slams into me. I gasp and sway on my feet, knocked off-kilter by the collision.
I instinctively push my hands into his chest to brace myself. He grips my upper arms to steady me.
The seconds stretch.
My nose is buried in his chest. Through the starch of his chef jacket, I get a whiff of that sea salt, leather, and notes of cedar, the scent of his skin. Through the sensitive skin of my palm, I feel his heart thunder in his chest.
Feel his breath hitch.
Heat floods my face. My stomach does something acrobatic and deeply unhelpful.
Get a grip.
I cannot stand here salivating over my boss like he's the world's most indecent dessert. Not when I just lectured him about compassion for something he'd already handled with more grace than I'll ever possess.
Not when I owe him an apology and don't know how to start. Being this close to him feels dangerously good. For a second, I forget to move.
James goes very still. Then he inhales. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s steadying himself.
Or maybe, I'm imagining that.
Except when I glance up, his nostrils flare slightly. His jaw tightens. Something unreadable flickers across his face before it vanishes behind that usual mask of control.
My pulse skips.
When our eyes meet, the air between us shifts. Like static before a storm. He towers over me, silent. Waiting.
The space between us feels too small. Too warm. My skin prickles with awareness.
I swallow hard.
I should apologize. Say something sensible. Something professional. Something that is not, Can I feel your biceps again?
Professional thoughts. I need professional thoughts.
“I—”
My voice cracks. I drop my hands to my sides and try again, but my throat is dry. I lick my lips.
His gaze flicks to my mouth. Just for a second. So quickly, I might have imagined it.
Great. Now, I can’t think about anything except him kissing me. I shove the thought out of my head.
"I owe you an apology," I choke out.
His expression settles into something cool and distant again. "You do."
It's not a question. It’s a statement packed with the full force of his authority.
He’s the master and I’m his…slave? To do as he commands. To bend to his will. To allow him to use me for his pleasure. To do with me as he wants.
As if he reads my thoughts, those blue eyes turn darker, deeper. Almost cobalt in color. The force of his personality seems to grow heavier, darker, infiltrated with a hunger which licks at my nerves and holds me in place. It feels erotic and, strangely, also reassuring.
Like I was born for this role. Born to sink to my knees in front of him and… Where did my thoughts go?
Why do I seem to lose control of my body when I’m with him? This is just fanciful thinking.
Yet, the knowing glint in his eyes tells me, perhaps not?
That it’s only a matter of time before he makes me submit to him.
That he’s coming for me, and there’s no escape.
I have a sense that we’re dancing some kind of ancient ritual that the oldest part of me recognizes, but which the rest of me is still struggling to catch up with.
My survival instincts blare an alarm. Get out of here, they say.
Leave. Run as far away as possible from this predator.
Do literally anything except stand here drowning in those impossibly blue eyes.
And yet, there’s also the thrill of the chase that sings in my veins and fires up every cell in my body. My God. I’ve never felt as alive as I do in this moment.
I force myself to hold his gaze: "I was wrong. About Ollie. About—" I swallow. "About you."
Something shifts in his face.
"Go on," he growls.
And the way he says it, low and rough and commanding, makes heat pool in places that have absolutely no business responding to my boss's voice.
I am so profoundly screwed.
I manage to gather my thoughts enough to string together the gist of a sentence. “Ollie. He told me what you did for him. Th-that’s admirable.”
His shoulders tighten. His jaw firms. “Glad you approve.”
Each word lands like a blade.
“If you’re done skulking outside my office, can you return to your line?”
“Of course.” I pivot, begin to walk away, glad he’d let me off lightly.
Then he calls out: “Richie?”
Ugh. I was being too optimistic.
I slowly glance at him over my shoulder.
“If the service is delayed by even one minute, the financial losses come out of your paycheck.”