My eye twitched. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry does not fix this.”
“I made a mistake.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “So did I.”
My temper—my terrible temper—sparked and ignited. “By trusting me, you mean? Or by sleeping with me?”
“Shout a little louder,” he said in a hard voice. “I don’t think they can hear you in the kitchen.”
The twitch became a throb. “You know, it’s not like I deliberately set out to hurt you.”
“How would I know? I do not know you. You tell me nothing.”
I threw my arms wide. “What do you want me to say, Eric? What can I do?”
“Take it down.”
“I can’t. It’s too late. It’s already out there.”
I’d linked my blog to all my social media accounts, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest. Once a post got picked up by other bloggers, once it was tweeted and retweeted, liked and shared... Yeah. The food scene in New York fed on itself like a rat snake. The online community depended on networking. I couldn’t have other sites, other bloggers, other influencers, clicking on a broken link.
I tried to explain. “It’s not just one post. I can’t delete the whole blog. I have a commitment.”
“Youhave a commitment.”
The scorn in his voice lashed heat to my face. My temper flared. “Yes. To my readers. To my advertisers.”
“What about your commitment to me?”
A moment of electric stillness, charged with emotion, swirling with the bitter echoes of every argument I’d ever had with Trey. I wouldnotgive myself up to be with him.
“What commitment? We hooked up. We had sex. I’m your booty call.”
He went very still. “You work for me.”
He didn’t contradict me, I noticed.“We had sex. I’m your booty call.”Not,We made love. Not,I love you. Never that.
Not that I wanted that. My pulse throbbed in my head. “Maybe I should quit.”
“Fine.” His voice was a near-growl. “Walk off. Walk away four hours before service.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” It was the cardinal sin of the kitchen, to call out without a substitute. “I’ll give you two weeks’ notice.”
He said something in guttural German. “I don’t want your fucking two weeks’ notice.”
“Don’t you swear at me,” I said.
“Swearat you? I’d like to...” He broke off, glaring. “Go. Just go. You’re right. This situation—you working for me—I knew it would be a problem.”
My vision blurred. My headache was blinding me. “Yes,Chef.”
I fumbled for the locker, my jacket, my knives. Pulling myself together to face the fire outside. To get back on the line.
Eat,” Constanza said, handing me a generous slice of flan. “You’ll feel better.”
If I ate anything, I’d throw up. “I’m good, thanks.”
