Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
“Honestly?” I say. “I came to see if you, um, still needed help. You know, in the kitchen. I’m, ah, not going to be able to reopen The Chocolatier at the moment.”
Rafe goes still, his brows angled together in concern.
It’s way more of a reaction than I expected from him. I don’t know what I thought he’d do—blow me off or tell me to fill out an application. But instead, he grabs my hand and draws me further into the Grille. “Come here,” he says gruffly.
My heart starts pounding over the hand-holding. It’s weird, right? Bosses don’t hold their employees’ hands. My thoughts jumble and knot.
He leads me to an office in the back, where he lets go of my hand and shuts the door. “Take your coat off.” He pulls off his leather bomber.
Typical Rafe—not an invitation, a command.
Part of me wants to defy him just to show him he’s not running this show, but then...he is running this show. And I’m here begging. But even more alarming is the fact that if I want to go toe-to-toe with him over whether my coat stays off or on, how in the hell could I ever work for the guy?
I shrug out of my coat and let him take it and arrange it on the back of the desk chair, over the top of his. He remains standing, and so do I. “So what’s going on?” He folds his arms over his massive chest.
I seriously don’t know why that makes my nipples pucker inside my sweater. It’s not hot. It’s bossy and presumptuous and way too alpha male.
Okay, yeah, it’s pretty hot. If they had a Special Ops calendar, which of course, they never would—he would be my December. He’s in nothing but a short-sleeve t-shirt, so I have a full and glorious view of all the muscles of his arms and chest. I sneak a peek at his abs. Nope, can’t see them beneath the shirt. Too bad.
“Listen, I didn’t come here to discuss my business problems with you. I just need a job,” I tell him with probably a little too much snap in my voice for someone who’s asking for a favor.
“Okay.” He nods, considering me, but doesn’t go on.
“Okay, you’ll give me a job?”
He nods again, but it’s not a very convincing one, and I’m not sure I like the calculating way he’s looking at me.
“I’m all set at the Grille, but we’re in need of a private chef up at the lodge.” He jerks his thumb in the direction of the mountain.
Private chef. At the lodge. The big beautiful mountain lodge where Rafe lives with his military posse. I’ve been there to visit a few times because Sadie is dating one of Rafe’s crew, Deke. I definitely did not wonder about Rafe’s bedroom or whether he slept naked.
A job at the Grille is one thing. I’ll see Rafe once in a while, but he won’t be my direct supervisor.
“Like a one-time catering job?” I ask. I could handle that.
“No, regular.”
Bad idea. It would be impossible to avoid Rafe.
I open my mouth to tell him “no” when he says, “It pays twenty-five hundred a week, and I’d need you to start immediately.”
I close my mouth and drop my lifted finger. Damn. Twenty-five hundred a week would get me out of debt quickly. I could make a good faith payment to the landlord after the first week—that should convince him to give me back the keys or at least not to sell off all my inventory.
Now I fold my arms across my chest. And not because my nipples are buzzing. “So my job would be, what? Cooking for you and your squad? How many of you are there?”
Rafe scrubs his hand over his face like it’s a sore subject. “Three to five of us, depending on who’s over. Lance is moving in with Charlie, but they still come by to eat sometimes. Sadie, too, of course,” he says.
The thought of cooking for my friends cheers me. I’m Creole. Cooking is a form of love where I come from.
“All three meals? Lunch and dinner?”
Rafe considers me. His eyes glitter like he loves the idea of having me under his thumb this way.
It makes me want to kick him in the shins. And hiss and spit like a cat. Right before he pins me down across that big, wooden desk and—
Nope. Not happening. Never, ever, ever.
“Lunch and dinner would be sufficient,” he says. “You could come in and cook dinner and leave lunch in the refrigerator for us.
“So, once a day, in-home meal prep, cooking and serving. Seven days a week?”
“Four. We like to eat out or order in on some nights.”
Four. Maybe this can work. If I could get The Chocolatier back open, I could keep working for Rafe until I get back on my feet. The time commitment wouldn’t be too bad if I planned the meals wisely.