Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 141(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 141(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Claire
“What are you qualified for?” asks Pierre, the impatient man interviewing me.
Good question.
As a girl who just left home in the middle of the night with a suitcase of clothes and her freshly printed high school diploma, I haven’t exactly spent much time in the workforce. But I knew making money would be the hardest part of setting out on my own, didn’t I?
I can’t afford to get intimidated now.
My feet are sore from pounding the pavement all day. No restaurants are hiring. This fancy bistro called Tartine is my final hope for a second job. I’ve already secured one waitressing position at a nightclub a few blocks away, but they were only able to guarantee me two shifts per week. I’m going to need a lot more income if I want to move out of the motel where I’m staying temporarily.
“I can waitress,” I say politely, hands clasped together tightly in my lap. “Actually, I’ve already been hired to work night shifts at Swet—”
“You’re going to work at Swet?” Pierre throws back his head with a rip of laughter, before eyeing me with nothing short of glee. “You’re going to get eaten alive.”
I hold my smile. “I’m tougher than I look.”
He adjusts his starched collar, looking dubious. “I’m guessing you haven’t seen the waitress uniform yet.”
My pulse jumps. He’s right. The manager at Swet gave me my uniform in a bag earlier. I simply haven’t had time to look at it yet. But I’m not going to let this man know that. “Like I said, I’m tougher than I look.”
With a derisive snort, Pierre leans back in his chair and gives my body a long, lazy once-over that makes my skin crawl. He’s in his early thirties, shaved head, meticulously groomed. If he wasn’t so rude, he might even be attractive. “You do have a very pretty face. Perhaps you have the attributes to match beneath that heavy coat?”
“I can wash dishes,” I blurt, hurriedly diverting his attention from my body. I haven’t removed my coat since my first interview of the day when a restaurant owner claimed I needed to show him my legs to determine if I qualified as a waitress. There has been a terrible feeling of subservience every time I’ve walked into a room alone with a man today. They all seem determined to flex their power and comment on my looks, which should be irrelevant, right? “Do you have an opening in the kitchen for dish washer?” I ask again, when he continues to peruse my body through my coat.
Reluctantly, he drags his eyes back up to my face. “As it happens, we do need someone to clean dishes. The last guy just quit. After one day.”
“Why?”
Pierre laughs. “My brother is the head chef. And he’s a complete asshole. That’s why.”
“Oh.” I shrug a shoulder. “Well, that doesn’t intimidate me. I lived with an asshole the first eighteen years of my life.” I slap a hand over my mouth when I realize I just said that out loud. “Sorry, I forgot I was in a job interview.”
“Well, well, well, she’s got some spunk.” He eyes me closer. “Running away from daddy, are you?”
I stay silent.
That’s none of this man’s business.
It’s nobody’s business but mine.
Pierre leans forward. “I guarantee you, my brother, Draven, is worse than whatever you’ve experienced. He gets away with it because he’s one of the most innovative French cuisine chefs in the Midwest. If you think you can handle him, sweetheart, you’re more than welcome to try.” He waves me off. “Come back tonight and I’ll throw you to the wolf. If nothing else, it’ll be entertaining.”
Relief fills my stomach. “Thank you, sir.”
Triumphant, I stand up, ignoring the way Pierre leers at me, his gaze burning me through the wool of my coat. Could his brother really be worse than him?
I guess I’ll find out tonight. But if Pierre thinks a cranky chef is enough to send me running, I can’t wait to prove him wrong.
My first impression of Draven is his shout echoing down the length of the stainless-steel kitchen and stopping me in my tracks. Frost forms on my skin, but I finish tying my apron at the small of my back and keep walking. When I arrived tonight, I was directed by a bored hostess to the employee locker room in the back of the restaurant where I found a note with my name on it taped to my locker, briefly explaining my duties.
Basically, the sink is my home for the next four hours.
First, I must clean up the lunchtime mess, plus the dishes used during dinner prep, after which I’ll be scrubbing soiled dishes on the fly for the duration of the evening.
No sweat.
I’ve been cleaning an entire household since kindergarten.
Thinking about how my father and stepmother must have reacted when they woke up to find me gone, I shiver all the way down to my toes.