Sitting down at my own desk, I huff again when I realize I’ve opened and closed the same tab four times in a row, mind completely erased of whatever the fuck I came up here to do.
Scheduling?
Payroll?
Planning a murder?
“Assuming you’re not recanting on your approval after that tasting,” Wilder’s deep voice interrupts the tumbleweeds rolling around in my brain, “I’m going to place the final orders for opening week. Can I run this by you?”
Right.
Another aspect of this job that requires us to share the same molecules of space.
If my body got the memo on how much we hate Wilder Amante, that would make this slightly less unpleasant.
Instead, I have to make it through the entire conversation with my cells humming, my nipples tightening, and my core clenching from the proximity of the finest asshole I’ve had the displeasure of grinding on.
Standing next to him, I try to watch as he leans over the desk, marking up the inventory list, but I can’t say I’m as focused as I could be.
I’ve had good connections with partners before, ones that altered my physical chemistry around them for a while after we stopped hooking up, but never frombeforewe even got together.
Chalking it up to another sign the universe hates me, I do my best to ignore the heat rising up my chest, the dampening between my thighs as the gravel of his voice licks over my skin even with the most mundane words.
Beets.
My nipples perk up.
Sirloin.
My mouth waters, but not for food.
Dairy.
I can feel my heartbeat between my legs.
Like I’m not already messed up enough, this has got me wondering if I have some sort of food kink I never knew about, but staring at the images on the supplier website, nope, not even the perkiest of eggplants or cucumbers does it for me.
The new girl in town, Amelia, would probably say it’s a cosmic joke on me, some sort of karma. Maybe the caterpillar I accidentally rolled over with my bike in grade school was the catalyst for some messed up butterfly effect that ended up starting a war in some distant nation decades ago and this is finally my punishment?
A Pavlovian level attraction to the man I can’t stand. The man who works for me, undermining my every goal with this restaurant and all my hopes for its legacy. And who gets under my skin like no one else ever has andlikesit.
And I thought being almost forty, still working at the same grocery store since high school, and not having gotten laid in three years was embarrassing.
If I’m not careful, I’ll find myself making a mess on his leg again, like I’m a dog in heat, not a grown ass woman with a fully developed sense of self-worth and an entire house full of plants waiting for me back home.
When we’re done, he turns back to the counter he’s been working from. “What’s this?” Wilder holds up a printed sheet that was on the work surface for him to see.
“And here I thought those eyes would be good for more than just staring at what you’ll never have. It’s a schedule.”
“Aw,bella, only one of us is in a delusion over what’s between us, and it ain’t me. The sooner you admit you want me back, the sooner the real fun begins.”
I’m not sure if gritting my teeth can stop my cheeks from turning pink, but I try it.
“And I see it’s a schedule. I asked you to make sure Charlie came in early to prep, this has him coming in a half hour before opening.”
“Yeah. Early.”
“That’s when the line cook would come in for lunch service. Prep cook needs to be here at least four hours before that.”
