“Who is it?” Eli asked.
“It’s the paper,” she mouthed back.
Eli slipped the phone from her ear while Constance continued speaking.
He held Marlee’s cell to his own ear. “She said no comment.”
His expression went dark. Scary dark. Then he pushed the end button and handed the phone back to her.
“They know it’s you,” she said, tucking her phone away.
“Yep.” He stared at the grill.
“I’m sorry, Eli,” she said. And she was. Really sorry her circumstances were about to take over more than his bedroom and some closet space.
“Not your fault, Mar,” he said.
Then he did the quiet thing again. She didn’t try to fill the space with words. This time, she just let things be.
Chapter Twelve
Ten Weeks Until the Divorce Becomes Final
Working in a kitchen was not super fun. Working in a kitchen actually pretty much sucked. And not just because she was Marlee and kitchens were kind of her nemesis, either. Eli might be all quiet and thoughtful in his daily life, but in his kitchen? He was all about barking orders and demanding precision. If he hadn’t been directing his barking toward her a good part of the time, she probably would’ve found it sexy. A guy who knew what he was doing directing a staff who knew exactly what they were doing? Yeah, hot. And then there was Marlee, who had no idea what she was doing, which made the barking of the orders run like a cheese grater over her skin. Yes, she’d mastered the use of a grater and could now shred cheddar so it looked like it came in one of the bags from the grocery store. This was a skill she never thought she’d take pride in.
She’d never known there was a wrong way to grate cheese. Turned out, there was. There was also an incorrect way to wash the pots and pans. And a wrong way to stir the soup. And a wrong way to use words, too. The staff were all, “Yes, chef,” and “behind,” and “hot plate.” Marlee had learned the first day not to call him Eli in the kitchen when the staff all looked at her like she’d violated the cardinal rule of kitchening.
Eli hadn’t seemed to care, but she didn’t like the not-so-nice looks. She picked up the “chef” thing pretty quickly. ThenElihad looked at her funny, but he didn’t correct her. And given that he corrected everything, she figured that meant it was what she was supposed to do. Working in a kitchen was crazy.
She tossed another batch of slivered almonds over yet another tray of chicken breasts. Eli had an assembly line going and her only job was to almond the chicken. Chicken that looked freaking amazing all nestled in a tray of cream sauce. Her stomach rumbled. Starving was a distinct possibility if she didn’t get something to eat soon.
That’s the one thing she hadn’t expected from working in a kitchen—she was hungry all the time.
And to top it all off, even though what Eli paid her seemed totally fair, by the time his bookkeeper got done taking out all the money for the government, there wasn’t nearly as much as Marlee had thought there’d be.
When she’d asked Eli about it, he had explained some blah-blah about taxes and benefits.
She tried to understand, but the bottom line was the same—her paycheck was pitiful.
“Less almonds.” Eli stopped behind her. “Spread them out more.”
Less almonds? She was literally putting on the exact number of almonds he’d shown her, in the exact same spots.
“Yes, chef,” she said instead of saying what she really wanted to say about him micromanaging the almonds. She didn’t glance at him, because if she did, two things would happen. One, she would tell him to lay off because the almonds were exactly as he’d shown her. And two, if she looked his way, she’d get all tongue-tied because he was in his chef’s jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair was wrapped in a bandana thing that made her stutter and want to beg him for a Vegas repeat every time he wore it. Which was stupid, because she didn’t really like him when he wore it.
Her stomach growled again, the lightheaded, haven’t-eaten feeling making her sway just a tad. Three more trays and she’d be done screwing up his almonds. She flicked each slivered almond individually now, ensuring each one landed with an appropriate amount of space between it and the others. It was like painting. Art. If she thought of it as almond art, she didn’t want to strangle Eli quite so badly.
“Mar?” he asked.
She tossed the last almond on her current casserole masterpiece. “Yes, chef?”
He didn’t say anything. Dammit. She hated when he did this. She was going to have to look at him.
“Marlee.” Man, he never used her full name. She pursed her lips. What had she messed up this time? The almonds were going exactly where he’d asked.
She flicked one last almond sliver in defiance and braced herself for the hit of sexy Chef Eli.
Sexy Chef Eli wasn’t barky, his eyebrows were all furrowed. “You feeling okay?”
