It’s infuriating. He acts like the Lord and Master of my world, and for some reason, I feel this frantic need to obey. To please him.
My brain knows better, but my body is a traitor. The second he gives an order, my blood hums, and something primal inside of me blooms and wants to comply. That’s before I even think to stop it.
What’s worse? I don’t completely hate how much power he has over me. I weirdly find satisfaction in giving it to him. What does that say about me?
"I bet none of them criticize you," I say bitterly. Typically, it’s the woman who gets the short end of the stick in these cases.
"There might have been a few which marveled that the normally bad-mouthed chef seemed to be stunned into silence,” he admits.
"Even the insults you get are backhanded compliments,” I scoff.
"Others think it was a lovers' quarrel. Apparently, our chemistry is off the charts. There’s speculation about our relationship. And whether we’re fucking." His lips twist, like he’s amused about the suggestion.
Like the thought of him and me together could never be possible in a million years. For some reason, that pisses me off even more.
“Does that seem funny to you?” I snap.
He must hear the anger in my voice for he wipes all emotion from his face and goes back to being Mr. Mask.
“It works in our favor.”
“Our favor?” I blink. “What do you mean?”
"The investors of my restaurant are very upset at the negative press. They want me to address it before it affects the bookings."
Oh no. "That doesn’t sound good."
"It isn’t." His voice grows hard.
A prickling of discomfort crawls up my spine. I shove it aside. "Bet you can convince them otherwise."
"I should be able to. With your help." A thread of dark pride runs through his voice, vibrating in the small, frozen space.
There’s something hidden in his words, something jagged and possessive that turns my unease into waves of agitation. He’s looking at me like a problem he’s already solved.
I squirm on the milk carton, trying to find a better position. “What does that have to do with me?"
"Everything." He drums his fingers on his thigh. "I assume you want to keep your job?"
I straighten. No way. He’s going to let me keep my job? After what I said? And after having insulted him in front of the staff? Not to mention, the negative PR from that little viral video clip?
"You’re kidding, right?" I snort.
He stays unmoved.
"Guess not." I hunch my shoulders. This entire conversation is getting very weird. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something behind these questions he’s asking me.
"With your help, I’ll be able to convince my investors there was a reason behind that clip. One which is going to convince them not to pull their investments."
I’m relieved. "If the investors don’t pull out, then the restaurant can keep running. Which means, I have a job?"
"You do."
Some of the tension fades from my shoulders. "To be clear, I want the job. And I promise never to challenge you again. In front of the staff, at least. I’ll bring it to you behind closed doors, especially if it’s something you say which is so obnoxious that I don’t have a choice." I cringe hearing my own words, but it’s best to be upfront.
I wouldn’t be truthful if I said I’d stay silent no matter what, right?
His eyes flash. A nerve throbs at his temple. "Obnoxious?"
