Chapter 12 Eliana
ELIANA
walk-in freez·er: /?w?k in ?frēz?r/: noun
I follow Bastian’s back as he stomps through the kitchen. No one we pass will look at me, as if my bad vibes might be contagious.
When we get there, Bastian yanks open the giant silver door to the walk-in freezer and steps inside. I follow because what other choice do I have?
The door seals behind us with a pneumatic hiss. Just like that, we’re alone. Trapped in this narrow, frigid tomb of hanging meat and frost-covered shelving, our breath forming clouds between us.
He turns on me so suddenly I nearly collide with his chest. “You think you’re clever?”
“I think I understand reality,” I shoot back. “Which is more than you can say when you’re lost in your fantasy of—”
He moves forward and I move back until my shoulders hit the stainless steel door of the walk-in.
It’s cold enough to make me gasp when it touches the bare back of my neck.
“You want to talk about reality? Reality is that I’ve built this company from nothing.
Reality is that every single concept under the Hale Hospitality umbrella has exceeded projections because I don’t compromise on quality. ”
“Quality doesn’t matter if you can’t deliver it consistently.” I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. God, why does he have to be so tall? It’s like arguing with the Jolly Green Giant, if the Jolly Green Giant was neither jolly nor green. “Your truffle supplier—”
“—will honor our contract, because I have leverage you know nothing about.” He braces one hand against the wall beside my head and stoops to my level.
He’s everywhere—blocking out the fluorescent lights, filling my vision, overwhelming my senses with kitchen smoke and wintergreen and fiery masculine frustration.
“You think you see everything from behind your desk, but you don’t know half of what goes into making this work. ”
“Then tell me!” It sounds way more like a whimpering plea than I intended. “Stop treating me like a temp secretary who backslid her way into a big girl job and actually tell me what I need to know to do my job.”
His free hand comes up to brace on the other side of my head, caging me in.
“That truffle supplier’s son has a cocaine problem.
I’m the one who got him into rehab—quietly, discreetly, without destroying their family business.
They’re not going anywhere. The sea bean facility lost their investor because I convinced him to pull out.
Why? Because I’m about to offer them a better deal—exclusive supply rights in exchange for expansion capital. ”
Silence.
The hum of the freezer.
The crackle of ice crystals.
The blue of Bastian’s eyes, going deeper, deeper, gone.
“You… ” I swallow hard. “You orchestrated all of it.”
“Every. Single. Detail.” He leans closer.
In the midst of all this frigid air, he’s somehow still a furnace.
“So before you stand in my kitchen and tell me my signature dish is a disaster waiting to happen, maybe consider that I didn’t get here by accident.
I got here by being better, smarter, and more ruthless than everyone else in this city. ”
“Must be lonely,” I whisper, taking both of us by surprise.
He blinks. “What?”
I swallow. I ought to turn back, but it’s too late now.
“I said, it must be lonely, being that much better than everyone else. Is there anyone there to keep you company when you’re ten steps ahead all the time?
” God, I should shut up. I should definitely shut up.
But something about being this close to him, here in this dark, freezing cell with no one to witness, makes me reckless.
“When’s the last time someone surprised you, Bastian?
When’s the last time someone told you no and meant it? ”
“You seem to be under the misconception that our contract gives you the right to disrespect me in front of my staff.” His tongue darts out to wet the corner of his mouth. “Is that what you think, Eliana? You think that a million dollars buys you the right to undermine my authority?”
“You wanted my expertise. Well, that’s what you’re getting.
” My pulse races from more than just anger.
It’s also from the way his eyes keep dropping to my mouth, the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders when he shifts closer, and above all, from the inappropriate thoughts flooding my brain about what those hands could do well besides cook.
“And my expertise says your signature dish will bankrupt us before the year is out.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Prove it.”
A silence consumes us that’s not really a silence at all.
It’s this whole cacophony of micro-sounds.
It’s the compressor cycling through its endless mechanical grunting; it’s the clanking of the chefs’ knives in the kitchen beyond; it’s the bob of Bastian’s throat when he swallows.
It’s my own heartbeat doing its panicked Morse code against my ribs, like it’s trying to telegraph danger, danger, danger to any part of my body still capable of rational thought.
I watch his eyes. Navy at the edges, arctic pale near the pupils, flecks of gray.
And they’re doing this thing where they’re not quite focused on me anymore but not quite looking away, either.
As if he’s reading something written in the air between us.
Some invisible contract neither of us signed up for.
The distance between us could be measured in centimeters now.
In breaths.
In heartbeats.
In all the words we’re not saying.
I need to get away. I try to push past him, needing space, air, freedom, elsewhere. But before I can even turn halfway to find the door handle, Bastian’s hand catches my wrist.
Not roughly. His thumb rests against my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is thumping. The touch burns through my skin, sends electricity shooting up my arm and straight to places that have no business responding to Bastian Hale.
We stand frozen, his fingers wrapped around my wrist, my body still pressed against the cooler door, his torso hot and huge against mine. The air between us feels combustible.
I don’t know what’s going to happen….
… then his phone buzzes.
Bastian doesn’t move for a heartbeat. Not for two. His thumb traces the smallest final circle against my pulse before he releases me abruptly and steps back to pull his phone from his pocket.
Whatever he sees on the screen transforms him completely.
“We’ll continue this later.” He reaches past me to pull the door open, then strides through and away, the phone pressed to his ear. “… What? … No? … Are you fucking kidding me…? Listen…”
I stay pressed against the cooler door, my wrist still tingling from his touch. It takes me a while to realize I’m shivering.
Probably because he’s no longer here to warm me up.