9. Whitley Whitt
Chapter 9
Whitley Whitt
Rich pompous asses .
“So, is it true? Connor tore your dress off and had his wicked way with you?” George says in way of greeting, as he comes into the kitchen.
I turn around to look at George, who takes a seat at the kitchen counter with a meddlesome grin on his face.
“Who said that?” Oh my god, this better not be what’s going around the castle.
“One of the waiters told me you two were arguing, but then you looked mighty cozy, and all of a sudden, he’s holding your dress together and heading up to your room.”
I laugh and shake my head with my eyes practically falling from their sockets. “No, George. He did not have his way with me.”
Although I’m not so sure I would mind it—if he could keep his mouth shut during.
“Then what happened?” he says, cupping his chin under both of his hands and propping them on the stainless counter.
“Where is FiFi?” I ask him.
“He’s napping. We went for a long walk today and yesterday, and he is still recovering. Now spill.”
I go back to stirring the tomato sauce to hide my growing blush. “There’s nothing to tell. I tried on that silly dress and couldn’t breathe. Well, could barely breathe in it. And then I got mad.”
I hear him snickering behind me.
“It’s not funny,” I retort, then smile at how terrified Connor looked when he realized he was going to have to cut the dress. “Okay, it is a bit funny, but no. Nothing happened. The man still hates me.”
“Well, you just let me know if anything changes, because there’s a rumor going around that you two are like, you know, boinking .”
“Who says boinking these days?” A smile spreads across my face. “No, nobody’s boinking.”
“Ahem.” Someone clears their throat and George and I collectively jump. Jesus.
“Chef Whitt?” comes Allan’s voice, and I inwardly groan at what he must have heard today.
“Yes?” I ask, noticing George make a hasty exit, the traitor.
I place my stirring spoon down and turn to Allan, forcing myself not to cringe at his stupid face.
“The stylist would like to know when it is convenient to meet with you to make a more masculine costume for you.” His lip curls as his attention passes over me, head to toe.
“Thank you, Allan. I’ll get back to them about that.”
Satisfied with my answer, he leaves while looking down at his clipboard. I wish he’d run into a wall or something, the cretin.
While I stir the almost ready sauce, I grab my phone from my pocket to send Connor an email one-handed.
Subject: Masculine costumes?
Dear Mr. O’Doyle,
We need to talk. I know this isn’t the best time, but I would rather have this conversation face to face.
Sincerely,
Whitley Whitt
Chef at Tepesh Castle
Two hours later, lunch has been served and I’m finally allowed to take a small break.
I walk down the hallway gingerly, waiting for anything to pop out. So far, only two Halloween decorations have nearly scared the pee out of me. Halloween ended in America months ago! Why am I being subjugated to frights at this time of year? God, why did I sign on for this place? Two more months, I’ve got this.
A cackle rings out and I jump, startled as anything, then take a deep breath.
“It’s just a toy—it’s not real. Just crazy rich people toys.”
I shake off the adrenaline and look around for any more spooky shit. Hopefully once I know where they all are, I can start mentally preparing myself when I near them. I walk down the hall and a weird hand—no, a cloth-covered animatronic hand comes down from the wall and a burst of fog emits from the floor.
I stand there for a moment, watching it sweep down the hall. I bet it does look creepy at night. This really is going to scare people. I think watching other people scream and cower would be fun, but I don’t like jump scares—not even in horror movies. Although, give me gore and creepy vibes, and I’m totally down for that.
I finally reach the stairs, gliding my hand along the banister for both physical and moral support as I head up to the study to corner that prick who refused to respond to my email. When I reach the top, my gaze travels up, and up, and my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets as I stare up at the largest man I have ever seen.
“Wow, you are tall,” I blurt out.
“Quick observation,” the big guy comments, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Heat streaks across my face as embarrassment rears.
“I’m sorry. They had these things just put in and they kind of have me on edge,” I say, to cover my rudeness with a simple reason. I smile so he knows I’m not a dick. “I’m not used to them yet.”
Somewhere a hose makes a pressurized sound and fog releases as if right on cue to punctuate my words.
I move to step around the man, but he shuffles his large frame, moving quicker than what I would have thought possible in the now creepy hallway. We almost run into each other.
“Sorry,” I mutter, as my face grows hotter and my palms turn clammy.
“Ladies first,” the man says, his arm sweeping the space beside him for me to move through. I can’t place his accent, but the cultured tone is definitely not from anywhere I’ve ever lived. He does kind of look familiar though, but I can’t recall where from.
He’s handsome. Blond hair, pale skin, with steel-gray eyes. He’s just so big that he looks like a freaking linebacker. His suit stinks of “I’m a rich, pompous ass” so I have a funny feeling he’s not a guest, but he’s here for the other Mr. rich, pompous ass.
I keep my head down, not making eye contact, and head to the study, hoping I don’t run into anyone else. I don’t know where my head’s at lately. The whole costume fiasco has been driving me crazy, and now the rumors of me and Connor have me on edge.
Ten minutes later, I’m in need of a good bath and wine, but what else is new when it comes to talking to Connor?
“Miss Whitt, are you listening?” he asks with a frustrated edge to his voice.
I reiterate to myself the many reasons why I need this job. “I’m listening.”
“I need this to work, okay? I need to have a Dracula experience for guests, and I plan on putting on a bigger show at the end of the year for actual Halloween. It’s not something we celebrate here in Romania, so this is just a trial. I need everyone’s help, especially yours.”
I nod and try to sound as convincing as possible. “My only issue is there is just no way to cook, handle all the dinner prep, and not risk injuring myself or starting a fire while in that big dress.”
His nostrils flare. “I would never want to do anything to jeopardize the castle, the staff, or your person, Miss Whitt. However, I’m willing to compromise, but for the dinner to appeal to guests, I need everyone in costume. That includes myself. Not even I’m able to get out of this.”
I didn’t know he was dressing up as well, and that does make me feel a little better. I literally thought he was just doing the whole thing to antagonize me.
Nervousness batters at my ribcage as I will myself to extend a tentative olive branch. “That brings me a measure of relief. An alternate outfit shouldn’t be an issue, as long as I can still do my job.”
He nods. “Good. I will have Frederick bring in the options for the costume. We’ve chosen to go with something a little more masculine that will be easier for you to move in.”
That does sound somewhat better. I’m thankful he’s actually been listening to my complaints.
“Umm,” I hedge, unable to keep my mouth shut.
“What?” He says the word like his last nerve is in the form of elevator buttons and I am smashing them all like an excited toddler.
I fidget in my chair.
“Is the choreography hard?” I ask, praying that it isn’t. I’m far from clumsy, but if the new costume is anything like that heavy-ass thing, I can definitely see me falling, or worse.
“No, it’s nothing like that.” He rubs his temples and pushes his hand through his dark-brown hair, making it stand on end. It’s the most frazzled I’ve ever seen him look. “Just a surprise for the guests. I merely need you to stand there and look pretty.”
I go still at the word pretty, wondering if he’s being a dick, but the words fell from his lips almost absentmindedly. He types away at his laptop, seemingly juggling a lot at once, and I realize then that he looks overworked.
I wince. I can’t imagine what it’s like to run a hotel business on your own without much help, and then to have me constantly up his ass.
“Why are you doing all this when the owner is halfway around the world drinking strawberry daiquiris?” When he lifts his gaze to me and cocks a brow at how I know that, I shrink in my chair. “George showed me a picture of Vlad and Aubrey soaking up the sun on a beach.”
My lips curve recalling how happy and carefree she looked in the photo. I really liked her, and now that she’s no longer here to butt heads with Doyle, I feel like I’m a lone fish in a pool with a shark.
“I ask myself that same question daily,” he deadpans, his focus going back to the screen in front of him. “All you need to know is that I am in charge here until Vlad’s return.”
His eyes flick to mine for the first time since I slid into the room and his fingers go still on the keyboard.
“Don’t worry, boss. You’ll get your money’s worth.” I wink.
His jaw ticks. “Do you always have to have a smart-arse remark?”
Is this guy for real? I’m trying my hardest to be fucking nice here!
“Oh, so there was absolutely no snark about you being in charge? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, Connor,” I tease, unsure why I am, but I can’t seem to help myself and honestly why should I?
“Only because you challenge me at every opportunity.”
His expression is murderous, and I know mine isn’t much better. He can get under my skin so fast.
His eyes flick to the door behind me and his gaze narrows.
“Oh get over yourself—” I start.
Connor moves to stand, his mouth opening to say something, but the door smacks against the wall. I gasp as I shift in my seat to see the big man I ran into in the hallway earlier shoving his way into the room.
“Well, isn’t this cozy?” His gaze appears humored, as if he knew I was in here and wanted to purposefully interrupt. Kind of weird, almost stalkerish, considering I saw him in the hallway not even fifteen minutes ago. His eyes meet mine. “Oh. Hello again.”
It finally registers where I know him from. Then again, I would be an idiot not to, considering his face is all over the internet as a world-renowned big shot with so much money he could blow his nose with hundred-dollar bills and not bat an eyelid.
“Oh my gosh. Wow! You’re Frank Stein.”
He smiles, and a dimple shows in his left cheek as he holds out a hand for me to shake.
Oh, my stars. I numbly take it, and his whole hand swallows mine.
Connor’s voice sounds furious as he says, “You’ve met?”