Two Weeks of Sin

The question threw me off guard. I’m not sure what I expected, but it hadn’t been this. Panic flared in my chest, and I blurted out the first thing I could think of.

“What?” I asked dumbly.

He got in my face, towering over me, making me feel small.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my parking lot?”

“I-I’m Amber Foster,” I stammered. Holy shit, he was beautiful up close. Yep, I was going to struggle with this job. Maybe his asshole persona would help diminish just how incredibly fine he was. My nipples budded and every nerve ending in my body pulsed like I was on the edge of some great pleasure. Warmth raced up my chest and cheeks as I tried to simply breathe.

He looked me up and down and shrugged. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“I’m your new chef.”

I thought the explanation would diffuse the situation, but somehow it made things worse.

His angry expression shifted to a look of contempt. “Ahh, yes. The culinary school rock star.”

It wasn’t at all a compliment. “Well, I don’t know about that. But I did win a few awards during—”

“You’re in the real world now. Awards mean jack shit.”

I swiped a shaky hand across my forehead, which was suddenly slick with sweat. “Of course, Chef. It’s just that it was a very competitive field of—”

“I don’t care, and neither do the customers. Send out one of those awards on a plate and see how much they give a damn. From here on out, only one thing matters; the food. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Chef. And can I just say that I’m really excited to be working for you.”

His emerald green eyes bore into mine, like he was staring right into my soul. I quivered under his gaze, and I hoped he couldn’t see it. I’d already started off on the wrong foot, though I had no clue how. I was early. I was polite. I was me. Either way, I didn’t want to piss him off any more than I already had.

“Oh,” he said. “Are you done kissing my ass?”

Heat burned my cheeks again. How dare he speak to me like that? What the fuc

k was the matter with him? Hell, what was the matter with me? Standing there taking it like a whipping girl.

I bit back a scathing reply, partly because I still wanted the job, and partly because every time I spoke, things just got worse.

He nodded. “Okay, good. Time to see the kitchen. Try to keep up.”

Chef Harrison turned back to the open door of the restaurant. His long-legged stride forced me to jog to keep pace. As much as I didn’t like him already, I couldn’t help but let my eyes move down his back to the curve of his ass. The man was a masterpiece –a prick but a masterpiece nevertheless. How anyone could put up with him outside of the bedroom was a mystery.

The thought calmed me just a little. Was he dominating and demanding between the sheets? Fuck, I wanted to know so bad it hurt. I’d never been with a man who actually acted like a man. Most of them were glorified girls. The pussification of America was real, and I was living proof that it wasn’t working.

“Hurry up and get out of your head.” He glanced back, his eyes piercing into me.

My mind reeled. I felt like my feet couldn’t find solid ground. The man had flustered me from the first word, and I hadn’t been able to regain my balance.

I wasn’t used to feeling that way. No one had ever treated me the way Chef Harrison had. I wouldn’t let them. It was a hard world out there and you had to be tough to survive. Growing up without my parents around molded me to be a force to be reckoned with and I’d never backed down from a fight.

Losing my parents at a young age meant I had to survive through some pretty tough times growing up and make it out strong. My past was what attracted me to the culinary world. Being in a busy kitchen was both chaotic, while at the same time, the closest to feeling right at home. What I remembered most about my mother was her love of cooking, and she was remarkable at it. No schooling – just a natural raw innate skill. It was breathtaking to experience. She taught me the basics and so much more at a young age. As a kid, I was able to do more than most adults could in the kitchen. My mother’s memory was my strength and motivation. So, needless to say, I could be one tough bitch when it came to anyone questioning my culinary skills, or intimidating me in general. I’d never taken shit from anyone, and I sure as hell never let anyone mistreat me.

Despite all that, Chef Harrison steamrolled right over me. He just had a presence about him that was impossible to ignore.

He led into the kitchen, and my mouth dropped open at the sight of it. Every inch of the place was spotless. I’d been in a few kitchens before, but none of them had been that clean. It made sense. He had such high standards. Of course, that would extend to cleanliness as well.

“Here we are,” he said, looking around at the stoves and ovens. “You’re new home. For as long as you can last, anyway. Have you ever worked in a professional kitchen before?”

I thought about lying to him, but he’d seen my resume. I was sure he already knew the answer to his question.