I went toe to toe with him in his own kitchen. The way I challenged him in front of his team, in his three-Michelin-starred restaurant… He could make sure I never work in this industry. And then it’s bye-bye to the dream of owning my own restaurant one day.
Bye-bye to the paycheck that meant I could give Briar and Freya the future they deserve.
All because…I couldn’t control my temper.
There’s no taking it back. But I’m not going to cower in front of a man who deserved every word I said.
Because none of it was a lie.
I take in the breadth of his shoulders. He’s so tall, the top of his head seems to brush the ceiling. My boss is a handsome mofo, no question. And he has the bad attitude to go with it. He’s a Grade-A arse. A bloody crumblehead. A Count Crankula. A pickled in self-importance meatball. Ha. I swallow down my chuckle.
No laughing, remember? At least, I’m able to see the lighter side of things.
He prowls toward me, gait as measured as a hunting jaguar.
I want to jump up and run before the confrontation begins. But I’m not a coward. I lost my temper with him. I must face the consequences.
I force myself to stay seated, spine rigid, even though my heart is racing like a saucepan left to boil over.
He pulls up another overturned crate next to me and sits on it.
For a few seconds the silence stretches.
I’m so aware of his big looming presence next to me. Of how the room seems to shrink around him. How he seems to take up all the oxygen in the space, so I have trouble breathing. Of my thoughts going places they shouldn’t. I clear my throat.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
A shiver belies my words.
It’s less than half an hour since I walked in here but it feels closer to two. My feet are so cold, I can barely feel them. I shove my hands under my armpits in an attempt to warm them. Hunch in my shoulders to contain my body heat. Despite my best efforts, another tremor overtakes my body.
He frowns. Then unbuttons his chef coat and shrugs it off his powerful shoulders. I did not look at how it caught on his massive biceps or how he had to peel it off. I did not notice how thick his fingers are or how broad his hands are.
"Here." He hands me his jacket.
"I d-don’t n-n-need th-that." Of course, my attempt at being firm is spoiled by my chattering teeth.
He merely drapes it around my shoulders, then tugs the front over my arms.
Instantly, it feels like I’m being enveloped in his body heat.
I fill my lungs with the heady scent. Then realize what I’ve done. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice it. Maybe it’s because I feel a little vulnerable after that outburst. That’s why I’m so aware of him.
"What was that about?" He nods in the direction of the kitchen.
Though I’m tempted to pretend that I don’t know what he means, I’m not going to.
"I totally didn’t mean to lose my temper.” I widen my gaze at him, making sure he realizes that I’m being sarcastic.
He watches me from under hooded eyelids, an assessing quality about his gaze. A small smile playing around his lips.
Satan smiled? Good God. What’s the world coming too?
He firms his lips again. Surveys me like he does the ingredients of a dish he’s going to put together. Measuring, planning, and tracing the different steps in the process. Imagining how the final result will look.
It’s clinical and focused, in that typical exacting James Hamilton fashion. It’s what makes him such an exceptional chef, but right now, it also pisses me off. For it means he’s not really speaking his mind. And I want that from him. It feels important that he share what he’s feeling, not just analyze the situation and offer a calculated response as he often does.
"What?" I scowl.
