Bossy Wicked Prince (House of Cards #1)

Chapter 1 – cat

CAT

Freezing my tits off in the walk-in refrigerator is not how I intended to spend the end of my shift, but here we are. I shuffle back and forth, rubbing my arms to get some feeling back into my fingertips and toes.

“I love the cold,” I mutter to myself through chattering teeth. “Sub-zero temperatures are t-totally my jam. I could stay here for hours.”

I glance down at my fingers, which are in the process of going from a pale white to a concerning reddish purple.

Apparently, verbal affirmations are no match for an industrial walk-in fridge.

I’m guessing I only have a few minutes before my hide-out raises the stakes from uncomfortable to actually dangerous.

There’s no window in the door, so I’ve got no way to see whether can’t-take-a-hint-Harry is still skulking around out there.

When I got this job, I learned that “The Bear” lied to me. I thought chefs were supposed to be assholes of the sexy, brooding variety with sculpted biceps peeking out from under their perfectly fitted white tees.

But chefs are mostly just assholes. Full stop. We’ve got a few of them rotating shifts at the Terrace Steakhouse, and I haven’t met an exception to the rule yet.

Even so, out of all my coworkers, Harry takes the fucking cake. He’s been hounding me to go out with him since my first day here. He seems to think that because he’s a chef and I’m ‘just’ a waitress, I’m supposed to be flattered.

I brushed him off the first few times he asked with a blanket ‘I don’t date coworkers’ before awkwardly changing the subject.

Unfortunately, ‘I don’t date coworkers’ translates to ‘ask me again, and again, and again’ in Chef Harry speak because it’s become a daily trend.

At first, it was just awkward. But then last night, he was waiting for me right outside the staff entrance.

He took me by the arm and pulled me toward the back loading dock.

When I tried to protest, he flippantly told me to calm down.

“Oh come on, I just want to show you something, Cat,” he said, making me feel like I was overreacting when I absolutely wasn’t.

I know I should have gone all Kill Bill on him, but when it came down to it, I just…froze. I couldn’t make myself move. It’s like I lost all bodily autonomy.

I don’t know what he might have tried if Sandy, one of the other waitresses, hadn’t walked out when she did.

So yeah, I’m trying to avoid Harry. I’ve had a long enough night already.

We were already a server down, and the ticket system in the kitchen malfunctioned, leaving us scrambling to get orders in.

Worst of all, my biggest table didn’t tip me, even after I painstakingly split their check onto eight different cards.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time.

It’s been a little over fifteen minutes, which I’m praying is long enough for Harry to get bored and head to the nightclub downstairs.

It’s always packed full of pretty girls, and if Harry drops that he’s a chef at Terrace, I’m sure it’ll be easy pickings.

I ease open the door and peek behind it.

To my relief, the supply room outside is totally empty.

The kitchen beyond is also silent; the sous-chefs must have finished their prep and gone home for the night.

With any luck, Harry took off out with them.

All I have to do is stop by the staff room to get my purse and I’m home free.

The second I leave the fridge, my phone starts vibrating so hard it could give my ancient Rabbit a run for its money. I pull it from my apron pocket and groan out loud. Three missed calls and ten text messages, all from the same person. Steve, my landlord.

Steve

Please call me ASAP.

The rent is late AGAIN.

This can’t happen every month, Caitlin.

I can’t even blame Steve for hounding me.

I know I’ve been late on my rent for the last few months, and even though my apartment hasn’t been renovated in a few decades, housing in Toronto can still be pretty competitive.

I know if Steve kicks me out, he could find someone to take over the lease in under a week.

Someone who never misses a payment. He probably knows that, too.

I quickly do the mental math. I barely got $100 in tips tonight after I tipped out the bussers and the hosts.

But tomorrow’s Friday, and the last day of the month, which always makes people open their wallets wider.

If I get my usual tips over the weekend and hold off on my donation to the shelter until next week, I should have just enough for my rent check to clear.

Sighing, I start composing a text to Steve that’s equal parts apologetic and reassuring.

Cat

So sorry! I’ll have the money for you by Monday. Thanks for understanding.

I’m deciding whether to add in some heart hands or a smiley emoji when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

Shit.

Harry’s leaning on the door to the staff room, taking an inhale from his vape.

Clenching my teeth, I spin on my heel and hightail it in the opposite direction.

He didn’t see me.

He totally didn’t see me.

“Hey, Cat!”

Damn it.

I could just turn around, say hello, get my purse out of my locker, and leave. But I have a bad feeling low in my gut. It’s almost midnight, and there’s nobody else in the back of the restaurant.

Instead, I pretend I didn’t hear him and start speed-walking. Fortunately, the building has a few exits. The restaurant is on the terraced second floor, offering late-night diners a view of the scantily clad women and well-groomed men filtering into the nightclub on the first floor.

The upper floors of the building are filled with offices and apartments. I usually take the stairs down to the staff exit on the first floor, but Harry cut me off from that. So I’ll go to the main Queen Street exit, instead.

“Cat!” Harry yells, and I can tell right away that he isn’t sober. “I know you can hear me! Cat!”

I rush through the restaurant, nearly toppling the chairs that the bussers neatly stacked onto the tables.

Shoving through the door to the restaurant’s main entrance, I’m greeted by marble floors in an atrium color-drenched in chic dark green. The modern bronze chandelier hanging from the ceiling bathes the space in dim amber light.

There’s an escalator down to the front exit, and just beyond, the glass doors out to the street. All I have to do is get to the bus stop around the corner. I’m stepping off the escalator when I realize the flaw in my plan.

My purse, the thing with my wallet and apartment keys, is still locked away in the staff room.

Ugh.

I’m racking my brain for what to do next when I hear an elevator chime behind me. It’s not the main elevator bank over by the entrance. It’s the private elevator behind the escalator, the one you need a special stamped metal key card to use.

A man in a suit emerges from the elevator doors. He’s holding a cell phone to his ear and yelling something into it as he storms from the building without even noticing me.

The doors begin to close, and without thinking, I rush for them, slipping through right before they close.

I sag against a copper wall and take a few deep breaths. Without a key card, Harry can’t get in the elevator.

Granted, without a key card, I’m not sure I can get out, but that’s a problem for later.

My heart rate is just getting back to normal when the elevator jolts upward. Oh god. Someone must’ve called it up.

It’s drilled into our heads from the moment we’re hired—this elevator is strictly off-limits to restaurant staff. The only person with clearance is the head server, and only when he’s serving the private poker games the wealthy residents of the building host on the third floor.

I wince when I notice the number three is lit up in the bank of buttons.

Fuck, if I get fired, I definitely won’t be making rent on time.

My mind scrambles for some sort of excuse that’ll hold water, but I’m a shitty liar and even worse when I’m on the spot.

Before I can come up with anything even remotely plausible, the doors open.

To my utter mortification, there’s a man on the other side who may or may not be ranked in a list of the hottest men to ever breathe air.

“Don’t worry, Ry, there’s always next time,” he calls to a table of men further into the space, not seeing me yet.

None of them looks this way, each absorbed in their poker game.

“Keep telling yourself that, man. I’ll happily take your millions,” the one called ‘Ry’ replies, waving what looks like a pair of women’s lacey panties over his head in a mocking farewell.

“Fuck,” the one in front of me says, jerking to a standstill as his silver-gray eyes lock onto mine and a frown settles on his face.

I grimace and press myself tight against the elevator wall as if I can disappear into it if I try hard enough.

“Everything okay, bro?” another guy asks, and oh my god, I think it’s my boss. Scratch that, he’s my boss's boss. The guy who literally owns Velvet his shoulders are broad enough to make some doorways a challenge for entry.

“Um,” I mumble, craning my neck to look up at him in the tight space. “Thanks.”

His imposing physique is wrapped in a tailored suit, and the watch glinting on his wrist probably costs more than I make in a year. He cocks his head at me and I catch the scent of his cologne. It smells like smooth spice and panty-melting sin.