‘I’m not staying here. I’ll sort Jack and then I am on a flight home.’
He dropped his eyes to his feet, but not before I saw concern in them. I lifted my chin higher and continued towards the restaurant.
The egotistically named ‘Fiefdom’ was completely black; black walls, black leather furniture, black bar. Warm white LED lights ran around the edge of the ceiling. The only relief from the black was the brushed, light-grey limestone floor tiles, which had been custom cut into enormous squares for the space. A huge black-and-white image of Jack hung above the bar, his arms crossed in front of him, a larger-than-necessary knife in one hand, which I’d heard him say was a not-so-subtle symbol of the size of his cock. His rugged, handsome face was unshaven and lined. The restaurant was imposing as fuck, completely outrageous and the hottest seat in town. There was a three-month waitlist for a table.
‘Abbey Parker.’ His voice was deep and coarse like a carpenter’s hands and his eyes wandered over me as if I was a piece of meat. I had actually been to the market with him once and seen him pick meat, and it was exactly the same.
‘Jack.’ I kissed him on each cheek.
His hand claimed my wrist. ‘You look like a cool glass of water on a searingly hot day, Abbey.’
‘Hmm, you have such a way with words. I’ll take that as a compliment, Jack. This’ – I pointed to Nick – ‘is Nick Northby.’
‘Oh, Abbey, I’m disappointed.’ His hand that wasn’t on my wrist went straight under my blazer and he rubbed my back, not bothering to look in Nick’s direction. ‘What fabric is this? It feels delicious.’ He raised an eyebrow at me and, when I did not take his bait, he added, ‘You know I don’t like other roosters in my henhouse, gorgeous.’
Arrogant fucker.
I remembered the first time I’d met him; I’d been a little starstruck and flattered by the attention he paid me. Eric had noticed straight away that I got a lot more out of Jack than he or any other guy did, so from then on they sent me down for everything to do with the build of Fiefdom. I lived in Melbourne for about six months. I’d just met Peter and had put my romance on hold to come and project manage Jack, though I was never paid accordingly.
Jack had done a brief stint in the UK on a cooking game show, which had skyrocketed him to fame, and he came home demanding a restaurant from the fanciest hotel in Melbourne, which happened to be us at the time. Conceited and overconfident, he was the kind of man who would look at other women while he dined me, but he took me to great restaurants, introduced me to wine, kissed me a few times, and tried to have sex with me frequently. Despite what my sister thinks, I am not naïve about men, and I knew that holding back sex gave me leverage with him. There were plenty of other women who would sleep with him. But in the twenty years I had worked for Delacqua, I was (proudly) not one of them.
As such, I was the road not taken. The mystery never solved. That was all it was. Theallurewas that I had never bedded the man while thousands of others … had.
‘Oh, Jack darling. Nick isn’t another rooster.’ I used my hip to bump Nick and ran a hand down his arm, which earned me a confused, semi-heated look. He was watching Jack with distaste, and I desperately needed him to play along here. ‘Nick is not a rooster. He is the farmer, Jack. The fucking farmer, who owns the fucking farm. So why don’t you sit down with us, tell us all your problems, and then let us know how we can make your coop nicer, Jack?’
Jack sighed, crossing his arms in front of him, mirroring the pose of the picture above the bar, cock-sized knife sheathed. Then he extended his hand to shake Nick’s. ‘You’ll come to see that I like Abbey, Nick. She’s a straight shooter, and she never takes my bullshit.’
‘She doesn’t take mine either,’ Nick said simply.
Utter bullshit. I put up with so much of his shit, it’s not remotely funny.
It took Nick approximately an hour to sort out Jack. The chef wanted a Michelin star for Fiefdom and had a list of demands that came along with the attempt to get it. Nick had no objections to Jack’s plan, so there was no real argument. They both knew they would have to put significant pressure on Michelin to make it happen because, geographically, they chose not to assess restaurants in Australia. Nick was prepared for some manoeuvring of the budget required to obtain it and they detailed out a six-month plan, which I took notes on.
Once everything was resolved, to Jack’s satisfaction, we were offered a table at the restaurant that night, which Nick declined. The civilised nature of the conversation and the business objectives aside, I could clearly see that Nick disliked Jack. He had that effect on people.
Jack walked us to the foyer. ‘Abbey, I hear you are single again, babe. I finish at eleven tonight. If you want to come to mine? I bet you’re a minx in bed. I’d love to get under that pencil skirt. I’d want you in black lace underneath, though. How do you feel about bondage, babe? I can just imagine using that tie around your throat—’
Nick turned and grabbed Jack by the throat of his chef whites, pushing him up against the nearest wall.
Jack’s shock turned to laughter. ‘Uh, I’ve obviously overstepped.’
‘Do you think I give a shit about who you are, Fife? Everything here ismine, not yours. If you do not like it, you can sod off. If you decide to stay and I ever hear you disrespect another employee of mine or hear a whisper of sexual harassment, a breath of inappropriate behaviour, I will put you out on your arse and find another fucking cook. Do I make myself clear?’ Nick’s eyes were glittering, and his voice was like ice. ‘Apologise. Immediately.’
The silence hung in the lobby. My heart was pounding so loudly it was all I could hear. Jack looked as if he desperately wanted to be defiant. He wasn’t an idiot though, and he knew power when he saw it.
‘I apologise,’ he said to Nick.
‘Not to me, idiot.’
‘Abbey, I’m sorry if I offended you.’
Nick released his grip and stepped back. He then turned and walked to the waiting lift, and held it for me.
Jack held my gaze for a beat too long, the thought clearly occurring to him that I might be sleeping with Nick. But then he shook his head, remembering he’d never managed the conquest, so Nick could not possibly have. He walked back to the restaurant, and I turned to the lift.
Once we were inside, Nick went to step towards me, but I pointed to the camera, and he stopped moving. His breathing was heavy, a flush underneath his stubble.
‘Where is your bag?’ he growled out raggedly.
