Chapter 22
“And that’s the last dish of the night.”
I slap the towel in my hands against the prep counter, take a deep breath, and smile as I look around the kitchen.
The couple of line cooks and the sous chef I hired a year ago give some mediocre claps, just like they do every other night of the week after we make it through dinner service.
Being a chef has always suited my personality because I love a challenge and racing a clock. There is a timing to running a service, both in how precise you must be when cooking any dish and also in how you pace the courses on any one table. You want a diner’s experience to be seamless and perfect, and both of those need to happen without them detecting any of the work that goes into it. It’s my job to orchestrate that as if leading a huge marching band through a complicated number.
Whenever I reach the finish line with impeccable marks for the night—meaning no huge errors, dishes sent back, and I didn’t yell too much at any one person—I buzz with the high of success. Yes, I love creating delicious food for people, but the challenge of running a kitchen is another factor in why I could never work any other job. I am meant to do this.
My staff starts to pack the extra food away; the uncooked materials go back into the pantry or fridges, while the leftover dishes from tonight get packed and donated to a food bank nearby. I walk around, doing a check of all the stations to see what needs to be cleaned more than our usual scrub down, and then over to the POS system to calculate some data on what was ordered tonight. Observing the data, which Patrick will then turn into spreadsheets for me in his spare time, is also one of the things that interests me.
I want to know what our customers are ordering, repeat ordering, or neglecting. What dishes can I change up or add more of with a twist? Are more people coming in for appetizers and drinks on a specific night, and can we run a special or a happy hour on that? I’m not much for numbers and accounting, but give me data on what people are eating, and I’m hooked.
Plus, if I’m going to impress my father and prove myself to my family, even though our profits have only increased in the years I’ve been running the kitchen, then I better be up on my game. I have hard-backed evidence to back up my points if Dad ever challenges me on certain decisions.
The kitchen door swings open as a perfectly round ass comes around it, a stack of plates in August’s hands as she walks them back to the industrial sink. My God, why do jeans look so much better on her than any other woman I’ve ever encountered? It distracts me to no end when she’s working here.
Not that she acknowledged me at all tonight. Her appearance at the start of lunch service was a surprise, and I’ve been trying to catch her eye for hours with no luck. So maybe I can lay on the charm now.
“Thanks for helping out tonight, I know it really helped a lot. The customers love you, and they always gush about you whenever I end up in the dining room.”
I’m not sure if I’m pandering to her or trying to flirt with her, but August hasn’t been herself tonight, and I loathe seeing it. When interacting with customers tonight, she was her usual polite, curious, friendly self, but it felt off somehow. I wonder if I’m the only one who noticed, and what that says on a deeper level.
“I didn’t want to come in, but your mother is a saint to whom I owe a lot, and of course, we both know I can use the money.” She won’t look at me.
Since she left my bed two nights ago, I’ve thought of nothing but her. The way she looked into my eyes as we both came. The sounds she made as I touched her body. The way she’d tangled herself around my heart without even knowing it.
I hate seeing her in so much emotional pain. It’s clear she’s reeling from it, and I heard her come back from that ambush on Warren. Whatever happened when she found him wrecked her. She might think I can’t hear through the walls, but those sobs into her pillow couldn’t be masked. Part of me wanted to burst into her room and hold her, but the other part told me that would be the worst idea yet.
And because I couldn’t make up my mind on how to comfort August, I kept my distance. My head is all screwed up with trying not to coddle her because she hates that, but also not wanting to send the message that us sleeping together doesn’t mean anything to me. Because it does, in a big way. A switch within me flipped that night, from not being sure how to approach my feelings about August to knowing exactly what I want.
I want her. The hard part now is helping her figure out all the extenuating shit so we can talk about how to make that happen.
“Regardless, it was really nice having you here today. And every day you’re here.”
She blinks at me, those big hazel eyes like warm caramel, giving me a shocked expression. We haven’t spoken since I told her to think about what she said to Warren, and she probably thought I was just leaving her alone at this point.
Nope, like I said, I was giving her space. But that’s over now.
She walks out of the kitchen without another word, going back and forth from the dining room with more dishes, cups, and receipts to put into the POS system. All the while, I help my crew clean up, scrubbing every surface with soap and water to make sure it shines and is spotless enough for a health inspection should one be sprung on us.
By the time everyone says their goodbyes and heads out for the night, the restaurant is quiet and dark. I can’t hear much outside noise from Newton Street, and I settle into my alone time in the kitchen. Normally, I start prepping a dish that’s on my mind. Maybe I’ll play around a little and just invent. Sometimes, I simply do walk throughs of our ingredients to get inspired.
Except a noise has me looking toward the swinging door. August walks through one last time, pulling all that white-blond hair out of its ponytail. The dim light catches it, illuminating her head like some ethereal star, and she’s so beautiful it hurts.
She rubs at her biceps like she’s sore from all the plate carrying she did tonight.
“Can I get you some Advil? Or maybe an ice cream sundae? That usually does the trick when I’m burnt out after service.” I want to take care of her.
“An ice cream sundae seems so childish when I think about your refined palate.” Her sarcasm is laced with bitterness like she’s trying to start a fight with me or something.
“Don’t knock a good scoop of vanilla, it’s the best medicine.” I quirk an eyebrow at her.
She rubs at her shoulder, and I can’t help but move in behind her to take over.
“What’re you doing?” Her tone is a mixture of shock and a groan of relief when my thumb digs into a sensitive spot.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so cavalier as to touch her right now and to make my intentions known overtly, but she’s been driving me nuts walking in and out of the kitchen today.
“Giving you a massage.”
August moans with relief but tries to shrug me off. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.” It’s as simple as that.
My hands mold to her shoulders, working my fingers in and out of the grooves as August lets her neck roll forward. Her skin is buttery soft, and she somehow still smells fresh and sweet while I probably stink like a meat locker. Touching her starts innocently enough, with trying to ebb away the soreness of service, but soon I can’t help how my hands roam.
How the tips of my fingers spark as they make contact with her collarbone, tracing it to the dip in her throat. I feel the intake of breath as she leans back slightly, her ass making contact with my groin.
“You ran out of my bedroom before I could get my fill,” I murmur, touching her jaw, her cheeks, and the indent of her upper lip.
Complicating this further is probably not what either of us needs, but I’m tired of doing this dance around each other.
“Evan …” August’s voice is a warning, but the jut of her hips back into me is a green light.
“Do you want me to touch you again? You want me inside you again?” The fantasy of taking her in my kitchen is too heady; I’m nearly dizzy with the need to do it.
“Yes.” Her breathy confirmation is all I need.
There is no thought in our next actions. August turns to face me, and I pick her up. Spinning, I plant her ass on the counter as my hands dive into her hair, and then we’re kissing. Our mouths fuse, the craving not nearly extinguished. My tongue seeks hers, lapping at it furiously as if it were between her thighs instead. She gyrates her hips, pleasure sending shivers through both of us as we struggle for the upper hand.
She wants this to be her idea, her outlet for relief once more. But I want to be the one to take care of her, and we’re warring over who is going to win this battle.
“Fuck me. Now,” August commands, biting at my bottom lip.
Jesus Christ, if that isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
We’re not taking our time, and we’re not exploring. This is pure, raw fucking, a need for an escape that must be hard and fast. She wants to forget for a while, and I want to give her whatever she wants. No one else knows exactly what is happening in her life, no one except for me, and I relish the fact that I can be the only one to give her what she desires right now.
Without another second to make sure that she’s sure, I pull both of her shoes off. Unbutton her pants. Pull them and her underwear over her hips and down her legs as she pushes up on the palms of her hands to help wriggle them off her. I grab the condom out of my wallet as she pulls her shirt over her head, those perky breasts filling a turquoise lace bra like it was made just for them. Just for me.
The second I push my pants down, and my cock springs free, I sheath myself and line up at her entrance. I can smell how wet with arousal she is, and my balls ache with the knowledge.
Our eyes collide for a split-second, and then I push in to the hilt.
“Yes!” she cries out, throwing all that beautiful hair back.
I grip it in one fist, keeping her neck exposed so I can suck on it as I pump in and out of her. My cock hits every groove inside her pussy, the tight heat of her nearly unbearable as pleasure funnels down my spine at a rapid rate.
“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous,” I whisper as my teeth sink into the lobe of her ear.
“Ah!” she moans loudly, bucking her hips at every thrust.
She’s meeting my pelvis as I bottom out inside her, our rhythm completely in sync and perfect.
A lot of people might be surprised at this, but I’ve never had sex in one of my kitchens. You’d think as a chef, and with the whole work fantasy, that at some point, I’d taken a girl back there or had a fling with one of my coworkers. But no. Sure, I’ve heard about plenty of chefs who have done it, but it never felt right to me.
This? Being here with August, waiting for it to be her in my kitchen, the one that will solely be mine for so many years to come, is what feels right. This is the only time, with the only person, I ever want to do this. Sure, it’s a hot, fast fuck, but it means more to me, even if it doesn’t to her right now.
Every day I walk in here, from this moment on, I’ll see August spread out on this counter for me, the most beautiful sight I’ve ever beheld. A five-course delicacy prepared just for me.
“I’m so close.” She whimpers, sweat trickling down my clothed back from how hard I’m snapping my hips inside her.
My fingers splay over one hip, her nails digging into my ass, as I bring the other hand to her cheek. Leveling her eyes to mine, I watch as lust fills them over and over.
“Come for me. Come on my cock,” I tell her, knowing she needs the words.
“Oh, God!” Her wail is a battle cry, the orgasm rattling her bones as her pussy grips me so hard I see stars.
Her climax triggers mine, the pulse of electricity to my tip making me roar as I shoot into the condom. We ride it out together, nonsensical words and moans filling the air.
By the time I can finally breathe again, it’s labored and shallow. I’m wrapped in August, the back of her neck damp with sweat while my balls grow sticky with her release.
Best sex of my entire life.
“You want that ice cream, now?” I joke, my voice throaty and hoarse.
August chuckles a bit. “Honestly, I think that did the trick.”
I pull out of her, hating the loss of contact, and grab us some napkins to clean up. I’ll have to scrub that counter again, but damn, it’s well worth it.
She might not hold my hand as we close up or let me open her car door, but at least she doesn’t run out on me this time when I take her home. And she doesn’t object when I pull her in the direction of my bedroom for round two. My plan to fuck her to sleep works, as August passes out in my arms after our second round.
If all she wants from me is this right now, then that’s what I’ll give her. She might still think I have no capacity for a relationship because that’s the lie we told each other, but my tune has changed. Now, it’s just about finding the right timing to tell her so.