Don't Touch

Omg, I have no words.

Do tell! Come on, don't leave me hanging!

He's hot as hell, Cor. Like if you combined Chris Hemsworth and Channing Tatum with Brock O'Hurn.

Wow, I need to see this for myself. Can you take a pic?

No! Are you crazy?

There's a noise behind me. I look back to see Cheryl giving me a death stare. Setting my phone down on the counter, I go back to prepping the food.

I'm so hyper focused on not messing up anything, that I'm locked in my own little world. I want this to be the best lobster bisque any new chef has ever cooked for Monroe Martisse.

The pot is starting to simmer. Adding the brandy, I flame off the alcohol. The second the flames are gone, I stir in the white wine and scrape the bits off the bottom. I reach inside my back pocket to get my phone and check the time, but it's not there.

Shit, what did I do with it?

I spin around, and my jaw falls open. Monroe is standing at my station with my phone in his hand. His eyes flick to mine. My heart is in my throat instantly, and I feel like I'm going to throw up.

He looks back down at my phone, then back to me. With firm strides, he crosses the room. I can't help but notice how his lips are thin and his jaw is jutting out. Deep lines crease his forehead as he stops right in front of me, his eyes so sharp they're stealing all the oxygen around me, leaving me breathless.

My face is on fire. The heat spreads down my neck and over my chest, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. This isn't happening. It can't be happening. I blink slowly, allowing the blackness to shelter me. I pray that when I open them again, Monroe is nowhere in sight, and this is just a trick my brain is playing on me.

As my lids open, he's still there, my phone securely tucked in his large palm. The screen is glowing bright, and I can faintly see the small, white letters floating in the blue and green bubbles.

He saw the messages. . . Holy shit he saw the messages!

No, no, no, no. This can't be happening!

That's it. I'm done. Fired. I didn't even make it a full shift.

What the fuck do I do?

“Here,” he says, handing me my phone. “You need to be more careful about personal chats. And for future reference, your phone stays in your pocket. I don't want to see it out again while you're in my kitchen.”

Monroe throws his body around and goes back to getting the kitchen ready for tonight's service. With embarrassment curdling my gut, and my heart hammering inside my chest, I can't make eye contact with him.

This is the worst first day ever.

2

Arisa

The dead bolt snaps shut with a loud thud. I drop my stuff into the basket at the entryway, and sluggishly walk into my living room.

I unbutton my chef coat, letting it hang open as I fall onto the tiny love seat against the wall. My apartment is small. Very small. The kitchen and living room are basically one room. There's a thin strip of metal that separates the beige carpet from the checkered linoleum.

The kitchen has a half-sized fridge with a single row of four cabinets that extend out over the sink. There's no dishwasher, and no central air. I have a small air conditioner in the living room window that doesn't even work.

My landlord claims he'll have a new one for me, but I'm starting to doubt it since I told him about it two weeks ago and I haven't heard anything since. The bedroom is the only door off the kitchen to the left, and the airplane sized bathroom is connected to that.

I look up at the ceiling and trace the cracking plaster with my eyes. It spiders out at the end into a web of thin cracks. There are faint brown patches in the white paint, making me wonder if I should have some extra buckets around for rainy days.

But all of this really doesn't matter. I don't need much. Just a place to rest my head until my career finally takes off. For now, this shoe box of an apartment will do.

I press the tips of my fingers against my temples and rub my head. I've never worked so hard in my life. The Backyard didn't stop from opening to close. I kick my sneakers off and stretch out my legs over the arm of the love seat.

I can't believe Monroe knows I think he's hot, I think to myself as I continue to massage my head.

I've never been so embarrassed in my life. For a brief instant I was angry at Corrine for putting me in that situation, but I know it's not her fault. This is my fault. I'm the one who left my phone for everyone to see on the counter. I'm the one who sent those messages.