Chapter 11 #2
The two lunge at each other. They grapple and crash into the counter. A glass bowl bounces off, hits the floor, and shatters.
I flinch. Oh my god. What’s happening?
“You’re both fired.” James grabs the two men by their collars and pulls them apart.
Instantly, my gaze flies to his face. Mistake, my senses jangle. The breath is punched out of me.
Oh god. Is that why I couldn’t leave? Because I had to catch a glimpse of him? Because I’m not over him?
He looks so masculine. So strong. Every inch of him tempered by the missions he undertook when he was a Marine.
My stomach drops. My throat closes. Heat flushes my skin. The humiliation at how easily he forgot me singes the backs of my eyelids.
He’s bulkier than when I last saw him.
His chest stretches his chef’s coat, hinting at sculpted planes. His biceps mold the sleeves of his chef’s coat, rolled up to the elbows of his veiny forearms.
A tattoo scrolls up one of them.
That wasn’t there when I last saw him.
I felt the strength of those sculpted arms. Moaned as they tightened around me like they were bands of steel. His touch—possessive, demanding…tender. Like he never wanted to let me go.
But he did.
He holds the two chefs by their coats now.
The pastry chef has guilt written all over his face. The sous chef glowers at James. "He started it.”
"No, he did," the pastry chef yells.
"I don’t care. No one disrupts my kitchen. No one. I’ll have your final checks to you tomorrow.” James nods at his staff.
Instantly, two of the tallest, broadest guys among his crew spring forwards. They begin to hustle the two men away.
"I’ll get you for this, James Hamilton. You’re not invincible." The sous chef shakes his fist at James before being pushed out by his staff.
James claps his hands.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
As if it’s a rehearsed signal, two more of the crew step forward to clean up the mess. The rest turn back to their work.
I take the opportunity to peruse his features unnoticed. High forehead, thick eyebrows drawn down. His eyelids are lowered. His jaw is set. His lips pressed together in straight lines which hint at his uncompromising spirit.
That scar over his cheekbone only adds to the sense of danger about him.
He looks like a knight, during battle, brandishing a sword with such fury, no one can get within arm's length of him without losing a head or a limb.
Yet, there’s an air of control about him. He’s the calm at the center of the storm.
He’s…terrifying.
Goosebumps pop on my skin. My stomach seems to bottom out. The intensity of my reaction to him makes my head spin.
I thought that the years had given me perspective. That I’m mature. I have more restraint.
But watching him command a room without raising his voice, I’m not so sure.
I want to run my fingers over his chin and feel the roughness.
I want to step into his space and sniff him to find out if he still smells of everything dark and sinful. I want to test whether the heat between us is as potent as I remember.
I curl my fingers into fists. This is a mistake. There’s no way I can work here and stay unaffected. No way, I can stand this close to him every day and not unravel.
He heads to his workstation, picks up a knife and begins to chop an onion.
He hasn’t seen me yet. This is my chance to slip away unnoticed. I angle my body, wanting to leave but my feet refuse to move.
Anger squeezes my chest. The hurt and humiliation that I thought I’d gotten over roars forward again.
I haven’t done anything wrong. So why should I slip away like a thief?
I set my jaw. I am owed an interview. So, I’m going through with it. And I do need the money. If I get the job that is.
James lifts the knife and brings it down. Again. And again. The rhythm is steady, controlled. Each cube that drops is identical. They’re the same size, same shape. At the same angle.
It’s like he isn't working from skill alone, but from a…compulsion?
James has developed a reputation for being demanding, heartless, so emotionless in his quest for perfection in the kitchen that his nickname is The Ice Commander.
Doesn’t mean his actions aren’t mesmerizing, almost tantalizing. Like making love. A ripple of heat squeezes my belly.
I ignore my jittery pulse and head past the line of busy chefs toward him.
I reach him, and he still hasn’t looked up. That’s how engrossed he is on what he’s doing.
I envy him his focus. But I’m also pissed that he hasn’t noticed me yet.
“James Hamilton,” I say loudly enough to be heard over the din of the kitchen.
He stills. Then puts down his knife slowly and turns to me.
His eyes flash. His expression changes from surprise to wariness to nothing.
Around me, a vessel clatters, steam hisses from a pressure cooker. The heat seems to build and press down on me. Sweat beads my forehead.
He watches me silently. Not a clue to what’s going on behind his eyes.
Then, “Harper Richie,” he rumbles in that gravelly voice of his.
There’s a command hidden in those words which makes me shudder. My toes curl. I want to give him whatever he wants. I want to hear his praise. The hair on the back of my neck rises. Ridiculous.
I can’t let him affect me so. I shove aside my reaction to him and tip up my chin.
“I’m here to interview for the role of Chef de Partie.”
His forehead furrows. His gaze drifts past me, unfocused, like I’m not a woman standing three feet away but a thought he hasn’t decided what to do with.
He won’t even properly look at me?
Heat floods my neck. My pulse stutters, too fast, too loud. Around us, the kitchen roars. Metal strikes metal, someone barks for service.
But the air between us feels vacuum-sealed, dense and breathless.
I’ve rehearsed this moment a hundred times. Running into James Hamilton again.
In every version, I am composed. Cutting. Unimpressed. And of course, he apologized. Profusely.
I never imagined I’d be the one asking him for a job. Or that he wouldn’t seem to remember me. It’s as if those hours we spent together were something I invented.
The silence stretches. My heart sinks. My shoulders slump. Maybe I should leave after all?
That’s when he growls, “You’re here for the role of Chef De Partie?”
I have a good mind to walk away. But... the thought of my niece, and of how the money I earn could make a difference to her future, stops me.
“I have a culinary degree from Westminster Kingsway, staged at El Celler de Can Roca in Girona, and spent three years at Claridge's under Marcus Wareing before moving to The Ledbury and—."
He holds up his hand. I stop talking.
Like he only has to command me and I rush to obey. Like I did when we last met. When he insisted on dropping me home, and I let him. Gah!
I should have learned my lesson. I should not let him order me around. But this is James Hamilton. His charisma is such that I can’t not obey him.
He snaps his fingers.
As if by magic, one of his team tosses a white chef’s jacket at James, who flicks it at me.
I catch it with my chest and hold it there. “Wh... what’s the meaning of this?”
The look on his face says: don’t waste my time.
But the words that emerge from his mouth are: “I’m offering you the role of Sous Chef.”
“Eh?” Did I just hear him say Sous Chef? Nope. Not possible. I’m here to interview for a more junior position. Also, he hasn’t interviewed me yet.
I must have been dreaming. “I... I don’t understand.”
He folds his arms across his chest and fixes me with his cold blue eyes. “You’re hired.”
James
It’s her. Her.
Blonde curls plastered to her forehead. Big green eyes that swallow the room. That swallow me. Everything else fades until there's nothing left but her. That gorgeous face. Her sweet scent. Those beautiful tits I pressed into my chest and marveled at.
Soft.
Perfect.
Seared into my memory like a brand I never asked for but couldn't burn away.
She takes a step back, still clutching the chef’s jacket.
It draws my attention to her generous hips. My palms tingle. My fingertips hurt with the need to squeeze them. Her thick thighs are encased in slacks that can't hide her hourglass figure no matter how hard they try.
Five years. Five bloody years of dreaming about her.
I was on leave from the Royal Marines when I ran into her at the nightclub.
I was struck by her beauty, her vibrancy, her zest for life. She lit up something in me which had begun to die, thanks to the violence I saw as a Marine.
And when it turned out that she was my sister Phe’s best friend, I insisted on driving her home.
Only, instead of dropping her off, we spent the night talking, taking in the sights of a slumbering London.
We’d kissed in the pre-dawn hush in front of Tower Bridge.
A fusing of lips. A tangling of tongues. An intermingling of breaths. She melted into me.
She opened up her heart, her body, her soul to me in that kiss.
There was a connection between us which shook me. I wasn’t able to control my emotions around her, and that scared me.
Enough that I retreated.
I cut off the possibility of anything between us before it could even begin. It was the right thing to do.
I left for what would become my last tour of duty.
My teammates were killed. I came back from the Marines with survivor's guilt and PTSD.
The OCD I'd kept leashed until then stopped cooperating.
The only way I stayed functional was by locking everything down. Emotions. Vulnerability. Other people's access to me.
It’s why I come across as closed off.
Then I became a chef. She’d told me that’s what she was and subconsciously I wanted to be closer to her. I’d considered it for a career before I became a Marine. It felt natural to return to it.
The same mechanisms I used to keep myself together. The precision. The discipline. The absolute intolerance for anything less than exactly right gave me the tools to control the chaos of the kitchen.
Three Michelin stars in five years wasn't ambition. It was a damaged man who had found the one place his damage was useful.