Chapter 15 #2
What turns me on is the way he takes charge. The way he orders me without hesitation.
Something inside me responds to that.
For once, I do not have to hold everything together. I do not have to think three steps ahead. I do not have to carry the weight of every decision.
With him, I can let go.
It feels dangerously good to hand him the reins. To let him decide. To let him push me.
Just like in the kitchen.
He demands excellence and something fierce inside me rises to meet it. I push harder. Faster. I want to prove I can deliver exactly what he expects.
Because when he finally gives that rare nod of approval, when he tells me I have done well, when he praises me and says good girl, the rush is unreal.
Like standing on a podium with gold around my neck.
It is his voice.
His command.
His quiet dominance which resonates with something primal inside of me.
It’s him. Only him.
Liquid heat pools between my legs. My nipples tighten.
No, no, no. I cannot admit to being so attracted to this man that I’ll do anything he asks of me.
Though, if I’m being honest, that’s one of the reasons I’ve stayed on in my job.
It’s why I put up with his bossiness. And that’s so very unprofessional.
I’m a sous chef with who’s worked high pressure kitchens. My last job was with a very well-known restaurant in London. I know what I’m doing. Still, the absolute authority in his voice, and the fact that he’s my boss, makes me doubt myself.
I pivot, then make my way to him. Coming to a stop in front of him, it feels like I’ve been called to the principal’s office. Or for an audience with the devil himself.
"I came in to show you something."
"You did?" Had not been expecting him to say that.
He pulls out his phone, swipes it, then turns it around and shows it to me. For a few seconds, I don’t understand what I’m seeing, then my jaw drops. "Is that… Is that—" I’m unable to complete my sentence.
"It is."
"But how—?" I look on in horror as our earlier interaction in the kitchen plays out on his phone. "Who uploaded it to social media?" Then I remember the junior chef filming us. "Was it Ross?" Realization dawns.
Of course, it was him. He has a social media following. And he manages The Edge’s online presence.
His jaw hardens. "He’s gone."
Right. Okay.
I can’t look away from the screen. The numbers are moving too fast. "A million views in half an hour?" I gasp.
"And counting." James swipes the screen into black, sliding the phone back into his pocket with a finality that makes my stomach turn.
"That’s a disaster." I swallow hard, feeling the weight of it. "My career is over."
"Or…" He drops his tone into a smooth, calculating pitch. "It’s an opportunity."
I ignore that.
I don't want to know how his clinical mind is already turning my ruin into a win. "I look like I’m having a psychotic break. The comments… I can only imagine." I swallow.
"They haven’t been complimentary.”
“You’re being kind. I’m the villain, aren't I? The unstable chef who couldn't take the heat." I wring my hands.
He hesitates, and that silence is worse than any insult. My heart sinks. He doesn’t need to read them aloud; his hesitation tells me everything. I’m not just a viral clip—I’m the internet’s new favorite target.
I sit back down on my upturned carton heavily.
"That’s it, I’m definitely not leaving this…
this…walk-in fridge." I look around the blue-light lit space. "There’s enough here to eat for me to survive for months, if I’m judicious.
Not the fresh meat, but I could eat the tomatoes and the edible fruits and vegetables.
And I can manage with this set of clothes and—"
"Stop," he commands.
I press my lips together hard, clamping down on the impulse to snap back. The words are right there, bubbling in my throat, but I keep them locked away.
It’s infuriating. He acts like the Lord and Master of my world, and for some reason, I feel this frantic need to obey. To please him.
My brain knows better, but my body is a traitor. The second he gives an order, my blood hums, and something primal inside of me blooms and wants to comply. That’s before I even think to stop it.
What’s worse? I don’t completely hate how much power he has over me. I weirdly find satisfaction in giving it to him. What does that say about me?
"I bet none of them criticize you," I say bitterly. Typically, it’s the woman who gets the short end of the stick in these cases.
"There might have been a few which marveled that the normally bad-mouthed chef seemed to be stunned into silence,” he admits.
"Even the insults you get are backhanded compliments,” I scoff.
"Others think it was a lovers' quarrel. Apparently, our chemistry is off the charts. There’s speculation about our relationship. And whether we’re fucking." His lips twist, like he’s amused about the suggestion.
Like the thought of him and me together could never be possible in a million years. For some reason, that pisses me off even more.
“Does that seem funny to you?” I snap.
He must hear the anger in my voice for he wipes all emotion from his face and goes back to being Mr. Mask.
“It works in our favor.”
“Our favor?” I blink. “What do you mean?”
"The investors of my restaurant are very upset at the negative press. They want me to address it before it affects the bookings."
Oh no. "That doesn’t sound good."
"It isn’t." His voice grows hard.
A prickling of discomfort crawls up my spine. I shove it aside. "Bet you can convince them otherwise."
"I should be able to. With your help." A thread of dark pride runs through his voice, vibrating in the small, frozen space.
There’s something hidden in his words, something jagged and possessive that turns my unease into waves of agitation. He’s looking at me like a problem he’s already solved.
I squirm on the milk carton, trying to find a better position. “What does that have to do with me?"
"Everything." He drums his fingers on his thigh. "I assume you want to keep your job?"
I straighten. No way. He’s going to let me keep my job? After what I said? And after having insulted him in front of the staff? Not to mention, the negative PR from that little viral video clip?
"You’re kidding, right?" I snort.
He stays unmoved.
"Guess not." I hunch my shoulders. This entire conversation is getting very weird. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something behind these questions he’s asking me.
"With your help, I’ll be able to convince my investors there was a reason behind that clip. One which is going to convince them not to pull their investments."
I’m relieved. "If the investors don’t pull out, then the restaurant can keep running. Which means, I have a job?"
"You do."
Some of the tension fades from my shoulders.
"To be clear, I want the job. And I promise never to challenge you again. In front of the staff, at least. I’ll bring it to you behind closed doors, especially if it’s something you say which is so obnoxious that I don’t have a choice.
" I cringe hearing my own words, but it’s best to be upfront.
I wouldn’t be truthful if I said I’d stay silent no matter what, right?
His eyes flash. A nerve throbs at his temple. "Obnoxious?"
Yeah, not the best adjective to have used. "You’re the one who said it’s best to say what you’re thinking?"
He nods slowly.
I square my shoulders and decide to say what’s been on my mind since I joined, "Some of the things you say are not conducive to the workplace."
He curls his fingers into a fist. The veins on his arm stand out in relief. The cords of his throat are so pronounced, I’m sure he’s going to have a coronary. He draws in a deep breath. And then another. He seems to have gotten himself under control. Then nods.
"So, I have realized.” His words are matter-of-fact.
He doesn’t seem particularly upset by my having been upfront with him.
That’s unexpected. I look at him with suspicion. It’s not like him to agree to what I've said. Unless—a bulb seems to go off in my head. "There are conditions attached to your investors not pulling the money."
He jerks his chin. "As I said, many of the viewers are convinced what they saw was a lovers’ quarrel. Enough that the chairman of my board of directors believed me when I told them that was the truth."
“You did what?” I gape at him.
He pretended it was true that we loved each other. Me and James Hamilton, my boss. My best friend’s brother. The man who refused to give us a chance in love with me?
I cough. "What…" I clear my throat. "What are you trying to say?" I say through lips gone numb. This time, not just from the cold.
He squeezes the bridge of his nose, and when he opens his eyes, there’s a look of fatalism in them. "Nothing I said could convince them that we—" He frowns. "That we aren’t in a relationship. Ultimately, I had no choice but to agree to their condition."
"Wh-what condition?" I whisper.
He cracks his neck, then rolls his shoulders like he’s preparing for a fight. When he looks at me next, his expression is twisted, like he’s finding what he’s going to say deeply unpleasant. "My investors will not pull their money from the restaurant, provided we get married."