He sounded serious about making good on his threat. But James doesn’t seem worried about it. He claps his hands.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
As if it’s a rehearsed signal, two more of the crew step forward to clean up the mess. The rest turn back to their work.
I take the opportunity to peruse his features unnoticed. High forehead, thick eyebrows drawn down. His eyelids are lowered. His jaw is set. His lips pressed together in straight lines which hint at his uncompromising spirit.
That scar over his cheekbone only adds to the sense of danger about him.
He looks like a knight engaged in battle, brandishing a sword with such fury, no one can get within arm's length of him without losing a head or a limb.
Yet, there’s an air of control about him. He’s the calm at the center of the storm.
He’s…terrifying.
Goosebumps pop on my skin. My stomach bottoms out. The intensity of my reaction to him makes my head spin.
I thought the years gave me perspective. But watching him command a room without raising his voice, I’m not so sure.
I want to run my fingers over his chin and feel the roughness.
I want to step into his space and sniff him to find out if he still smells of everything dark and sinful. I want to test whether the heat between us is as potent as I remember.
I curl my fingers into fists. This is a mistake. There’s no way I canwork here and stay unaffected. No way, I can stand this close to him every day and not unravel.
He heads to his workstation, picks up a knife and begins to chop an onion.
He hasn’t seen me yet. This is my chance to slip away unnoticed. I angle my body, wanting to leave, but my feet refuse to move.
Anger squeezes my chest. The hurt and humiliation that I thought I’d gotten over roars forward again.
I haven’t done anything wrong. So why should I slip away like a thief?
I set my jaw. I am owed an interview. So, I’m going through with it. And I do need the money. If I get the job, that is.
James lifts the knife and brings it down. Again. And again. The rhythm is steady, controlled. Each cube that drops is identical. They’re the same size, same shape. At the same angle.
It’s like he isn't working from skill alone, but from a…compulsion?
James has developed a reputation for being demanding, heartless, so emotionless in his quest for perfection in the kitchen that his nickname is The Ice Commander.
Doesn’t mean his actions aren’t mesmerizing, almost tantalizing. Like making love. A ripple of heat squeezes my belly.
I ignore my jittery pulse and head past the line of busy chefs toward him.
I reach him, and he still hasn’t looked up. That’s how engrossed he is on what he’s doing.
I envy his focus. But I’m also pissed that he hasn’t noticed me yet.
“James Hamilton,” I say loudly enough to be heard over the din of the kitchen.
He stills. Then puts his knife down slowly and turns to me.
His eyes flash. His expression changes from surprise to wariness to nothing.
