Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

I hear shuffling behind me and then in a way too excited tone, Drea screeches out the words no one working in this kitchen should ask. "Can I get your autograph? I have all of your cookbooks at home, but can you sign my jacket?"

I pick that moment to turn around because I know inevitably I'm going to have to face him. He's one of the reasons I applied for this position after I graduated from culinary school. His career is astounding and his accomplishments are nothing short of impressive. He's only twenty-nine-years-old and he's already the owner and chef at one of the most prestigious restaurants in Manhattan.

"I sign your paycheck." He ignores the offer of the pen that Drea is dangling in front of him. "I assume that whatever you're working on needs your attention."

She purses her lips together in a grimace before she tucks the pen back into her pocket. "I thought you were on a book tour."

"I thought you had work to do," he counters. "I'm here for dinner service tonight. I want everything in order."

I stare at his profile. He's striking. His dark hair is long enough to touch the collar of his jacket. His face is covered in stubble. It's no wonder that women come to the restaurant in the hope that he'll be here. I've lost count of how many of my classmates from culinary school have asked if they can stop by to meet him.

"You and I should talk." He suddenly turns to the side so he's facing me directly. "Come with me."

My breath catches at his words. "I have a lot of work to do."

His tongue darts over his bottom lip before he runs it over the top. It's a thoughtless gesture that shouldn't impact me the way that it does. "That can wait."

I lower the knife in my hand onto the cutting board. I smooth my hands over the front of my chef's jacket before I take a deep breath and silently follow him down a corridor toward a makeshift office that I've seen the restaurant manager use to fire those who don't pull their weight.

"If this is about what you overheard, I can explain that," I say the moment we're through the doorway.

He slides the leather jacket he's wearing from his shoulders revealing his muscular, tattooed arms. I look to the open doorway hoping someone, anyone, will save me from this moment.

"I don't need an explanation." He tilts his head to the side as his eyes rake me from head to toe. His gaze stalls on my name, which is sewn on the front of my jacket in red thread. "I'm going to assume you were talking about one of my signature dishes when you said you could fit the entire thing in your mouth."

I bite my bottom lip when he takes a step closer his eyes riveted to my face.

"That's what you were talking about isn't it, Cadence?"

My lips part slightly as I pull in a deep breath. "No. I was talking about… I was actually talking about your…"