Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
She had a soft Alabama drawl, and I was extremely close to laughing. Kieran was such a fucking cliché, going for the Southern-belle type.
“Thank you.” I bowed my head in faux humility. “How can I be of service?”
“No, really.” She squeezed her breasts together, leaning toward me. Subtle as a tank, this one. “We came here because I told Kieran—didn’t I tell you, Kiki?—I have to taste everything you make after seeing you on The Great Chef Down. And when you tossed pepperoni on that contestant and told him he was a prick pizza—priceless!” She clapped excitedly, laughing.
Was she going to get to the point sometime soon? Because I had a service in crisis and a leftover boner from pinning Cal to her floor this afternoon. My dick still twitched every time I thought about those blue hair tips.
“Annie wanted to let you know the food is delicious.” Kieran yawned into his fist, as though admitting I made good food pained him. I hoped it did.
“Already know that.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
Kieran glanced at his Rolex, taking a bite of his entrée. “You’re welcome for the validation, buddy.”
I wasn’t his buddy. But I was about to become his undoing if he didn’t evacuate himself from my premises. Averting my gaze his way, I said, “Get the fuck out.”
“Excuse me?” He tilted one brow, calm and collected. He had ridiculous, shiny, light-brown hair and wore a black turtleneck, the international prick uniform. I didn’t buy the whole tamed-down version he was selling me.
“I said: Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
“We’re paying customers,” Kieran pointed out unflappably.
“No amount of money is worth you contaminating my restaurant. The lady is welcome to stay.” I clasped my hands behind my back, ignoring Rhyland, who shot daggers at me with his eyes. “Dateless.”
“She’s my cousin.”
“Personally, I’m not a fan of incest, but that explains your IQ.”
“Oh my goodness.” Blondie shielded her face with a manicured hand, ducking her head sideways. “Kiki, you never told me he hates your guts. We should leave.”
“I see at least your cousin’s parents aren’t related. Good idea. I’ll show you to the door.” I stepped back to give them space to stand up, knowing we were drawing the attention of other diners and still not giving much of a shit. I Loathed this man with a capital L. If I could serve him a piece of extra-cold revenge for everything he had put me through, I didn’t mind the Page Six headline. Nothing kissing a few babies and signing a nice check to an animal shelter couldn’t fix.
Kieran stood up unhurriedly, showing no sign of embarrassment, and his cousin followed suit. “Hadn’t realized I cut you so deep I carved you into an asshole.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I brushed off invisible lint from his designer turtleneck. “You’re no more than an anecdote. It just so happens I don’t feed bullies—they’re already full of shit. Now kindly fuck off.”
I ignored Rhyland’s stunned face, along with the dozen phones directed at me, agape mouths, and hushed whispers.
“Did you just throw out a customer?” Rhyland jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Diners were shifting uncomfortably in their seats. I wasn’t worried. Chefs were known to be douche rockets. Gordon Ramsay’s entire career was built upon the ruins of other people’s hopes and dreams. “One of the most popular soccer players on earth at that?”
“He’s no Messi.” I glanced at Kieran’s plate, noting it was completely empty.
“No, but you are.” Rhy scrubbed his face, probably itching for a joint. “Messy as fuck, not to mention reckless.”
“Resign.”
“Been there, done that,” he reminded me. “Can’t fucking wait to kiss this job goodbye.”
“You can keep the kissing part; I’ve no interest in your herpes. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I stomped my way back toward the kitchen.
A hand reached out to me from one of the tables. Slender, cold fingers laced around my wrist. I turned to look at the person. It was a brunette in her early thirties. Sharply dressed.
“Mr. Casablancas?” She flashed a seductive smile that did nothing for me, the lilt of a French accent ribboning around her words. “My name is Sophie Avent. I’m a reporter for Cook’s Illustrated.”
I never gave interviews. Unless it was a part of my contractual obligation for a TV show promo, in which case I had my people go over the questions in advance with a fine-tooth comb. My past was too tangled, too complicated for me to open my life up for the world’s entertainment.
“I was wondering if you would—”
“No,” I cut into her words.
“You didn’t hear my question yet,” she pointed out smartly.
“Unless it ends with ‘let me suck your cock’—in which case, the answer would be ‘no, but thank you’—the answer is still no.”
“Heyyyyyy there!” Rhyland slid between us, chuckling good-naturedly. Sophie Avent’s face looked like I’d just slapped her, and I didn’t blame her. There was no excuse for this level of asshole-ness. Normally I reined it in much better. Rhy bowed his head at Sophie, looking genuinely horrified. He was a damn good actor, and an even better liar. “So, first of all—apologies for his crassness; easing him into civilization has been a step-by-step process. Clearly, he escaped his cage.” Rhyland rearranged the utensils on her table, his heartthrob smile working extra hours. “Second, your dinner is on the house and will be accompanied by a lovely 1998 Chateau Lafite Rothschild and an exclusive ten-minute interview.”