"Meaning, if you don’t get married within the next six months, I’ll disinherit you."
13
Harper
It seems like my third month at The Edge is going much the same as my first two. Badly.
However much I try, it doesn’t seem to be enough for Satan.
He’s found fault with me, criticized me, set unreasonable, outrageous, unrealistic, standards; then made sure I know that I’ll never reach them.
I have been tempted to quit at least once every day. But then I remind myself how much I’ve improved as a chef since I joined here. And how much of a difference the money has already made.
Freya is thriving in her drawing classes. Her teacher is one of the best in the city, and she lights up talking about him, even on the mornings she still drags her feet about school. I haven’t lost sight of my goal to get her into the Royal Drawing School. That costs money I don't have yet.
Briar dropped one of her jobs. She's enrolled in online courses, chipping away at her degree in whatever hours she can carve out. I want to make enough that she doesn't have to work at all. That she can just study.
Watching them settle into something steadier has made it all worthwhile.
It's also made me realize how much of a difference money can make. It doesn't fix everything. But it fixes enough.
I’ve also realized that no matter what I do, I’ll never be able to please my boss.
“This steak's so rare, it tried to moo at me," Cap'n Control Freak drawls.
It's not even that funny. But three nights of barely any sleep have destroyed my judgment, and a laugh claws up my throat before I can stop it.
I try to swallow it down. Fail. End up snorting.
"Does this feel like a joke, Ms. Richie?" my boss murmurs.
His voice grows softer. You’d think this was a casual conversation. However, the tips of his ears turn white. A sure sign it’s anything but.
His blue eyes, which resemble the icy expanse of the tundra, grow so stony; it feels like the temperature drops by a few degrees. I shiver.
His jaw hardens. His thick eyebrows knit.
That thin upper lip of his firms. His pouty lower lip, so plush it should look out of place on his austere face, juts out in a way that sends a weird tremor up my spine. It’s hate. That’s what it is. I have never hated anyone in my life as much as I hate this man. So what if he’s my best friend’s brother? So what if for one night, he made me feel like I was the center of his universe?
In The Edge, he’s the owner and the chef. All I am is his slave. Sorry, sous chef.
“No, sir.” I resist the urge to snap to attention or toss off a mock salute.
His jaw tightens, and his eyes flash, darkening in a way that makes my stomach flutter. The way he lingers on me… It’s almost like he likes it. Likes being called sir. Likes the control it hints at.
Heat surges through me, sudden and undeniable. I try to keep my shoulders loose, my posture casual, but every instinct tells me he notices the shift. Every tiny twitch, every small movement, it’s all magnified under his gaze.
I’m helpless to look away.
"Your demeanor indicates otherwise." He stares down his nose from his superior six-foot-three height of brooding surliness.
He tightens his lips. But his eyes flash.
"Three times."
"What?"
"You will cook this steak three more times."
