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)
They have no idea where you’ve gone. They’re not going to find you. You’re safe.
With a deep breath, I put my chin up and march further into the kitchen, intending to station myself at the sink, keep my head down and clean my booty off until the dishes glisten like diamonds. But I see the gigantic man up ahead, I stumble over the rubber mat on the floor of the kitchen, heat crowding into my belly, my face flushing wildly.
Is that…Draven?
It must be. He’s wearing a white coat and everyone is nodding at his instructions like he’s passing on a message from God.
Maybe he is.
If I was God, I would look no further for a messenger.
He’s…breathtaking.
Broad and intense and commanding. His medium-length dark hair sticks out of the bottom of a black bandana that is secured around his head, stubble graces his powerful jaw, golden eyes piercing the soul of everyone they land on. He gestures with his hands at the group of gathered kitchen workers, and I can’t help but stare at those long fingers, the muscles of my abdomen tightening suspiciously.
Wow. His mouth looks so hard, while still being…plush.
Am I attracted to this man?
No, that would be strange and inconvenient.
He’s at least thirty-two.
And mean.
I’ve just escaped from an angry man. The last thing I need is another one in my life.
Not that having Draven in my life is an option. As co-owner of this restaurant, he’s essentially my boss, and based on the copious glowing reviews I read today about the chef of Tartine, he lives, eats and breathes food. No time for relationships, even if he were to glance at me twice. Which he won’t! I’m a dishwasher. Inconsequential.
Forcing myself to move, I skirt around the back of the group, my plan to find the sink and start scrubbing. I’m brought up short when Draven’s voice cuts off mid-sentence. Cutting a glance to my right, I’m shocked to find he’s staring right at me.
“Who are you?”
Everyone’s heads whip around at once.
It’s not their attention that makes me feel like I’m free-falling, however.
It’s his.
Having those eyes directly on me is like being bathed in fire.
Has there ever been any man so beautiful?
“I, um…” Oh lord, I sound as breathless as I feel. “I’m the new dishwasher.”
Draven crosses his thick arms, his upper lip curling. “No. Get out.”
Someone snickers. A few members of staff shuffle their feet, eyes on the floor.
My pulse is racing in my wrists and temples. “Get out?” I repeat.
“That’s what I said.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I don’t allow fragile little girls in my kitchen.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not one of those,” I retort, resisting the urge to kick the kitchen worker who is still laughing under his breath at me. “Now, if you’re done yelling at me for no reason, I’m going to go clean some dishes.”
That shuts everyone up.
Draven slowly hoists a black brow. “You think you’re tough?”
“No. I know I’m tough.”
His upper lip curls. “Stay out of my way while I’m cooking.”
I sniff. “Unless you’re cooking in the sink, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
The barest trace of humor teases up one corner of that sculpted mouth. His gaze tracks down my body, but unlike the men who’ve been interviewing me all day, he doesn’t leer like a goon. It’s a sharp accounting of my figure. A reluctant awareness.
I really wish my nipples didn’t bead in response.
“What is your name?” Draven asks, striding through his riveted staff, the throng parting to allow him through, like Moses strolling through the Red Sea.
“Claire,” I say, forcing my chin to stay up, even though the closer he gets to me, the more I feel urged to bow my head, as if in prayer. This man is dynamic and teeming with raw energy. A sort of giddiness rides along my limbs and tickles my nerve endings when he stops in front of me, his golden eyes narrowing on my face.
“My brother hired you, Claire?”
“Yes,” I whisper, wondering how it’s possible that my tummy is quivering. It has never done that before. “I was hired just this afternoon.”
“Chef.”
A line forms between my brows. “I’m sorry?”
“I was hired just this afternoon, chef.”
Right.
Haven’t I learned everything from watching The Bear?
“I was hired this afternoon, chef,” I whisper, looking up at him and feeling a silky shift in my panties. A greeting of wetness that I don’t expect and have never experienced before. But instinctively, I know it’s my body’s first kiss of arousal. Does it come from acknowledging that he’s in charge of me? Does it come from having to tilt my head all the way back to maintain our eye contact, because he’s over a foot taller and so much larger than me?
“That’s much better, Claire. Maybe you’ll make it through the night after all.”
I swallow hard. “I plan on it, chef.”