I scoff. “I obviously had a better introduction planned.”
“Oh yeah?” He sits back on his heels, resting his hands on his knees. “Let's hear it then.”
I toss another piece of glass onto the tray without looking at him. “Hear what?”
“Your better introduction. Tell me.”
I glance up, certain that I'll see some mocking look on his face, but to my surprise, I think he's serious. Maybe he's offering me a second chance—a window to turn this conversation around.
I clear my throat, wipe my hands down my skirt, and extend a hand. “Hi, Chef Matthews. My name is Jane Sinclair and I’m a writer withThe Savory Standard. It’s so nice to meet you.”
His brows rise then knit together as he stares at me for a beat. Then, he says, “That’s it? That was your better introduction?”
Before he can reject my handshake again, I lower my hand and gesture to the mess around us. “You think it’s worse than knocking down plates and shattering them?”
“I don’t know, that was pretty lackluster.”
“Okay, sorry, you’re right. The shattering plate was much more memorable. I’d love to see you try to forget about me now.”
“I don’t think I will ever be able to forget about you.”
I lift my gaze from the mess on the floor to glare at him. If he weren’t so mean, he’d be pretty hot.
Oh who am I kidding? He is hot even if he is mean. Dark hair shorter on the sides, piercing blue eyes, an angular jawline covered in dark scruff.
I’m still watching him as I reach for another piece of the plate. I wonder if his eyes are naturally that blue or if he wears contacts or?—
“Ow!” I hiss. I was so distracted by him that when I go to pick up another piece of plate, I end up slicing my hand. I hiss, pulling my fingers back from the jagged edge of porcelain. My stomach turns as I notice blood welling up on my palm. His eyes dart to my hand. If I weren’t so convinced he already hates me, I would be sure that I saw a flash of worry on his face.
“Are you okay?” he asks. I truly can’t tell if he’s being sincere or just worried about a workplace report.
Not that I’d file one considering this is my fault anyway.
I yank my hand back and cradle it with my other, pressing it to my chest like I’m protecting it from him. I don’t want him tosee any kind of injury. Or any kind of weakness if I’m being honest. Not after everything that’s already happened here. I’ve already ruined his food, made a massive mess in his dining room, and wasted his time. The last thing I need is to ask for medical attention and be even more of an inconvenience.
“Yep, totally fine.”
His eyes narrow. “Oh really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He stares at me for another second before reaching forward and yanking my injured hand toward him. A sharp pain zings through the slice on my hand. “Ow,” I cry. He ignores me and examines my palm, turning it until it’s under the minimal amount of light from the chandelier above us. When he sees the line of blood, he sighs.
“For God’s sake. Come with me.”
I pull my hand out of his grip, biting back another hiss of pain in the process, and shake my head. I have absolutely no interest in going anywhere with this man who very obviously hates me. I don’t think my ego can handle being in his presence any longer than I need to be. “No thanks. I’m good.”
“I’m not letting you leave here with an injured hand. Let me just disinfect it and put a Band-Aid on it. I can’t let anyone leave my restaurant with an injury.”
I crack a smile. “Yeah, I guess that would probably be really bad for your PR.”
He doesn’t smile back. “It would, yes.”
I sigh, the smile—my white flag of sorts—dying on my lips. “Okay. Fine.” He gets to his feet. I do the same and silently follow him.
He leads me through the door I just bumped into and into the kitchen. It’s an immaculate room with state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances, butcher block countertops, emerald green subway tile shining on the walls, and open shelving filled with copperpots and an array of labeled spices. Chef Matthews leads me to a prep sink, but I keep turning my head to stare at the details as I walk behind him. It’s a shame it’s not an open kitchen because I could sit and watch the kitchen crew cook in here for hours, bustling around with pots and pans and plating entrees.
Chef Matthews turns on the water and I snap back to reality. He doesn’t wait for me to question him or rinse off my own hand—he simply grabs my wrist and guides my palm under the steady stream. His fingers are gentle, but determined as he holds my hand in place.
