“Then go tell her, and stop being a little bitch.”
Without another word, we start jogging again as I let my mind contemplate our conversation. This might all come back to bite me. Maybe she won’t entertain the thought, or she doesn’t feel the same way about me. Am I a good enough man to walk away? I thought so, but I’m kidding myself. I want Aspen, and I’d do whatever it takes to please her.
After Dalton and I part ways, I walk back to my apartment, repeatedly going over it in my head. It’s all well and good saying that I’d do whatever it takes to make her happy, but is that really what’s best for her?
When I get back to my place, I drop my keys, peel off my sweaty clothes, discard them on the floor, and head straight for the shower. I stare at myself in the mirror as it begins to fog. Am I what she needs? Or even what she wants?
As I’m about to step into the shower, my phone rings. It’s Aspen’s agent. I should ignore it. I let it ring twice—that’s how long I can be an unselfish man when it comes to her.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, Mr. Whitiker.” I’m not going to give her my real name. “As requested, I am calling to alert you that Danielle has requested to work on Friday night.”
I stare at myself long and hard, my morals disappearing as the steam from the shower engulfs me, circling me like a darkness in my soul. “Tell her to meet me in the lobby at The Four Seasons at eight.”
“And the fee…”
“Double. As agreed.”
“Enjoy your evening. Danielle is one of our most sought-after girls.”
“I bet she is.” I end the call before I say something I’ll regret. I’ve already got a long list, and I’m sure by nine on Friday night there will be a great deal more to add to my growing list.
I’ve never wanted to punish a woman more than I do right now, and Aspen is the only woman who won’t let me.
It’s going to be a long week.
Aspen has been the perfect student this week, hanging on my every word in the kitchen, but the second we’re finished for the night, she’s out the door. Our original agreement was that I would drive her home after her shifts, but that’s been a no-go the past few weeks. Tonight is no different.
“Can we talk?” I’m learning to ask rather than demand.
“Unless I did something wrong during dinner service, I don’t think we have anything to say to each other.”
“Aspen.”
“Don’t.” She’s not playing around. It kills me that we’re not even friends at this point, and there’s a physical ache in my chest every time she’s close. When she brushes past me in the kitchen, I have to stop myself from reaching for her.
“We can’t go on like this.”
“Am I fired?” She stands with her hands on her hips.
“No.”
“Then we have nothing to talk about.”
“How is it that you lied to me, and I’m the bad guy?”
She doesn’t answer, an almost imperceptible flash of regret in her eyes. “I didn’t lie. I don’t know everything about you.”
“Bullshit.” I clench my jaw shut before I say something I’ll regret.
“May I leave, Chef Stevens?”
“I’m not your master. If you want to leave, go ahead.” Without another word, she storms out the door, leaving meutterly dejected. I’ve always been a self-assured guy, but the way this woman gets under my skin has me off-kilter.
I hate that I can’t check if she makes it home safely. I hate that I can’t fuck her into submission. More than anything, I hate that she doesn’twantto submit to me.
As I lock up and head home, I run through a million different conversations I could have with her tomorrow night as my ‘escort,’ but in every scenario, she blows a gasket when she sees that I’m her date for the evening, and she gives me a tongue lashing and not in a good way.
