Eden shakes her head. “It was an accident,” she says, voice quivering from the shock—and very likely from the chill. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I thought there’d be room.”
“No, it was my fault,” Hector mumbles quickly. “I should have just waited.”
Alexander clenches his jaw when he sees Eden shiver. The fabric of her jacket is so thin, it’s now see-through. He can make out the line of her bra strap, as well as the points of her breasts. Eden crosses her arms over herself, her cheeks and the tips of her ears pink with embarrassment.
Alexander averts his eyes, ignoring the way his stomach flutters and his throat tightens. “Trisko, you stupid—”
“It’s fine,” Eden interrupts, placing a hand on his forearm. “Please, it’s not a big deal.”
“But you’re—”
“Please.” Eden swallows, casting her gaze to the floor.
Her discomfort is contagious. Alexander can feel the muscles in the back of his neck straining. He glares at his chef de partie. “Clean this up,” he orders sharply.
Hector nods. “Right away, Chef. I’m so sorry, Eden.”
Eden forces a smile, and Alexander has to fight against telling her not to do that. She isn’t obligated to be polite in this situation. She should be angry. Lord knows Alexander would be if he were in her syrup-logged shoes.
“It’s all right, Hector,” she says softly. “Just be careful you don’t slip in the mess.”
“Sorry,” Hector mutters one last time.
Except he doesn’tlooksorry.
“Come on,” Alexander grumbles to her, guiding her out of the walk-in fridge.
He takes Eden around the perimeter of the busy kitchen—all of the other chefs are watching her with concern—and leads her to the staff room. There’s a small men and women’s bathroom just off to the side.
“Take your time cleaning up,” he says. “There’s no rush.”
“We’re in the middle of dinner service,” she argues.
“I’ve got it covered.”
“I’ll just run this under the hand dryer. I’ll be out in a few.”
Alexander bites down on his tongue. He knows that isn’t going to work, but says nothing. All he can do is watch as Eden hurriedly retreats into the women’s bathroom and shuts the door behind her.
He goes back to the kitchen in a sour mood. The other chefs all stare at him, as if waiting for an explanation. He gives none. Instead, he shouts, “What the fuck are you all standing around for? Get back to work!”
People scurry back to their stations, but Alexander can’t seem to shake the impossible knot in his guts.
“Man the line, Drenton,” he snaps at Peter before rushing off to the kitchen office. He picks up the black chef jacket he tried to give to Eden earlier before slipping into the break area around back.
He knocks on the women’s bathroom door. “Monroe?”
“Yeah?” Her voice comes as a muffle from the other side.
“I brought you something to—”
Eden opens the door quickly. She’s stripped down to her sports bra, her jacket and undershirt wringed out and drying on the bathroom sink’s edge. Alexander’s eyes are immediately drawn to the graceful length of her neck, the delicate dip of her collar bone, and the peaks of her breasts.
She’s so small, he’d have no problem picking her up if he wanted to. Alexander wonders what Eden’s skin would feel like beneath his palms. He’s suddenly curious to know if she’s as soft as she looks, or what it would feel like to brush his fingers over the gentle curve of her breasts. Maybe he could venture down further, kiss marks against her belly, her inner thighs…
“Chef? You’re staring.”
Alexander rips his gaze away. Gulps. His whole face feels hot. “Take this,” he grumbles, shoving the new jacket into her hands. “Cover up.”
