by Cassia Leo
Sign up for Cassia’s mailing list!
Subscribers get emails with bonus content, exclusive giveaways, excerpts from books before they’re released, and special sales and events.
Raise the Heat
A Beastly Bosses Novel
Cassia Leo
Gloss Publishing LLC
RAISE THE HEAT
(A Beastly Bosses Stand-Alone Novel)
by Cassia Leo
cassialeo.com
Copyright © 2021 by Cassia Leo.
First Edition. All rights reserved.
Cover art by Cassia Leo.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without expressed written permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
All characters and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Preview of Break
Also by Cassia Leo
About the Author
Prologue
Alice
They say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Or, as I like to say, just because two chocolate cakes look equally tempting on the outside, doesn’t mean they taste the same on the inside.
I learned that lesson the hard way in culinary school. And it seems I’m about to learn it all over again with my new boss, who has quickly become the sexy, tattooed god of my taste buds. The first man to literally make me drool. Not even his brother managed to do that.
Oh, yeah. Did I mention my hot new boss, Ethan Thorne, is my ex-boyfriend’s twin brother?
Ethan Thorne. Prickly beast that he is.
What else can I say about him? Deliciously mouthwatering on the outside, ridiculously cunning and put-together on the inside. But something tells me his tantalizing lips—and the things he wants to do with them—are going to leave me with a distinctly bittersweet aftertaste.
Chapter 1
ALICE
The matte-black frame on the storefront windows of the corner restaurant makes it look like any other shop in Manhattan. The signage hasn’t been installed yet. My only indication this is the right location is the paper covering the inside of the glass, emblazoned with the words: FORKED RESTAURANT opening soon!
What kind of person names their restaurant Forked? A pun? Really? It’s probably owned by an edgy, tattooed culinary school dropout who managed to secure some barely deserved venture capital funding for the latest gastropub knockoff serving deep-fried cheeseburgers slathered in their signature peanut butter and jelly barbecue sauce.
Hmm. That sounds kind of good.
Anyway, whatever Forked Restaurant in Chelsea is, it’s probably not going to be my next place of employment.
This is my thirty-first job interview in six months. The first nineteen were painful. Numbers twenty through twenty-six were depressing. Twenty-seven through thirty were a snore, as they went exactly as expected: arrive for my appointment, ignore the side-glances and excited whispers, thank the interviewer for my latest rejection, and leave another piece of my dignity at the door on the way out.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Just because my father is the one who secured me this interview, doesn’t mean the outcome will be any different.
I attempt to push open the front door to enter the restaurant, but it’s locked. Accustomed to this scenario, I scan the steel frame and find a doorbell. Pressing the round button, I take a step back and wait.
The unmistakable sounds of construction and chatter float through the paper-lined glass door. But a few minutes later, I’m still standing outside Forked feeling like a habitual truant sent to the principal’s office.
Why do I even bother?
This interview is going to end badly. Why am I here?
Shaking my head, I turn around and set off back to the subway. No more taxis and Lyfts for this unemployed girl. But I make it less than three steps before the sound of a young, shimmery voice calling my name stops me.
“Alice?”
I spin around and find a cute, androgynous woman, early twenties, close-cropped bleach-blonde hair with pink tips, and black, square-rimmed glasses smiling at me.
“I’m Alice,” I reply, putting on a hopeful grin.
She flashes me what looks like a genuine smile as she takes in my appearance: my olive skin concealed with my best no-makeup makeup look; my long, dark hair pulled back into a neat chignon at the base of my neck; a crisp, white T-shirt tucked into the most professional-looking pair of black jeggings I own and also don’t ride up my ass; a thigh-length, mustard-yellow cardigan to hide my wide hips and ample bottom.
“I’m Ollie, short for Olivia. Come on in,” she proclaims, holding the door open for me. “Excuse the mess. We’re three weeks out from opening, so naturally, everything that could go wrong has gone to absolute shit.”
I let out a puff of laughter, then quickly press my lips together to stop myself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. That just sounds…very familiar.”
She waves off my apology. “I’m sure you know what it’s like,” she says, leading me along the edge of the chaotic dining room currently in various stages of construction.
I can’t tell if her comment is meant to imply I’m familiar with how hectic it gets when you’re opening a new restaurant—I do—or that I understand what it’s like when everything has gone to absolute shit. I also know a thing or two about that.
Pushing aside these thoughts, I take in the orderly chaos of my surroundings. A man on a tall ladder is installing recessed lights in the twenty-foot ceiling. A crew of two men is installing a wooden frame for a dining booth in the corner. Brown paper and masking tape cover the floors from wall to wall. Near the bar, a few people stand over a long table covered in blueprints.
“Everyone here is dying to meet you,” Ollie says as we approach a set of swinging doors, which I assume lead into the kitchen.
My stomach drops at her choice of words. Everyone here is dying to meet you. I’ve heard similar proclamations before.
Behind those double doors, I’ll probably find a large group of servers and cooks who are itching to witness the moment I’m rejected for yet another job. I’m pretty sure it’s become a rite of passage in the Manhattan restaurant scene to see me get my hopes and dreams crushed. All it took was one messy breakup to turn me into a foreigner in the city where I was born and raised.
I stop a few steps short of the swinging doors. “You know, I actually have somewhere else I need to be. I’m so sorry.”
Ollie looks confused. “I’m sorry, did I say something?”
I shake my head as I let out a soft sigh, suddenly unable to fake my enthusiasm. “I’m just not in the mood to be publicly humiliated today.”
Her mouth drops open. “Oh, my God. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for you since…well, you know,” she says, once again surprising me with how genuine she seems. “Personally, not that my opinion matters, but I t
hink you’ve been vilified for no reason. And believe me, you weren’t brought here to be paraded around like some kind of sacrificial lamb. That’s not our style.”
I force a smile. “Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical, but this is my thirty-first rejec—I mean, my thirty-first interview. I’m just so over it.”
She looks me in the eye for a moment, empathy radiating off of her in beautiful waves. “Well, I have a feeling this is going to be your thirty-first and your last,” she says with a wide grin. “Come on.” She pushes the double doors open, and I follow her in. “So, your dad got you the interview?” she asks politely.
A twinge of shame stirs in my belly. “Yeah, using my dad’s connections was kind of a last resort.”
She shrugs. “Nothing wrong with working the Daddy’s girl angle. I would if my dad worked at a venture capitalist firm.”
I want to refute the Daddy’s girl comment, but I can’t. It’s true. I’m a Daddy’s girl through and through. Always have been and probably always will be.
When I was six years old, our first-grade teacher asked the class what we wanted to be when we grew up. Without skipping a beat, I blurted out, “my daddy!” Of course, the room exploded with laughter. That was my first indication I was different from everyone else.
In high school, I preferred working at the family restaurant—when we used to have a family restaurant—rather than going to the mall with my friends. If I wasn’t working, I favored staying home to learn the recipes my mother learned from my grandmother during the first years of my parents’ marriage.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the Susie Homemaker type. My best friend Minka once callously referred to my bedroom as a “homeless encampment.” But to understand who I am, all anyone needs to know is this: I hate my big butt, but I live, breathe, eat, sleep, dream food.
Succulent seared scallops. Tender rabbit legs soaked in Chianti and pan-fried to a crisp. Dry-aged ribeye cooked to a perfect medium-rare and blanketed in a crackling peppercorn crust. A delicate, flaky branzino with a bright squeeze of lemon. A decadent chocolate marquise drizzled with a silky creme Anglaise.
Food is my safe haven. Other than great sex, good food is my favorite sensory experience. It’s also the source of my greatest weakness: Men who love food.
When I watch a man flip a sizzling steak, I don’t watch the meat. I watch the man-meat. The tendrils of muscle in his forearms as he turns his wrist are bewitching. The utter focus on a man’s face as he tastes a sauce makes my heart race. When I see a man carefully twisting a mound of pasta onto a clean plate, my mouth salivates.
Unfortunately, my blind spot for men who can cook is the reason I’m in my current situation.
Ollie and I pass through a pastry prep area, then another set of swinging doors, and into the main kitchen at Forked Restaurant. But as soon as we’re inside, I come to a dead stop.
A male chef is standing at a stainless steel table, rubbing and slapping spices all over a giant Tomahawk steak.
The man is gorgeous. Okay, beyond gorgeous. But it isn’t his good looks that make my breath catch in my throat.
It’s not what he is that surprises me. It’s who he is.
The man standing in the kitchen of the only restaurant in New York that may actually hire me after six months of unemployment is none other than my ex-boyfriend, Edward Thorne.
The ex who said something so horrible to me, I had no choice but to quit my hard-earned sous chef job on the spot six months ago, walking out on the most important service of my life. The ex who got me blacklisted from every reputable restaurant in New York by telling Food & Beverage magazine I cost him his second Michelin star. The ex who simultaneously ruined my career and my life.
If you get involved with your new boss, I’m sending you to live with your grandma. My father spoke these words when he told me he’d secured me an interview with his new client.
I’m almost thirty years old.
Sending me to live with my grandmother is a threat my father hasn’t used on me since I left home when I was eighteen. Living with your parents when you’re an unemployed adult should be considered adult-child abuse. At this point, I’m just waiting for child protective services to rescue me.
My beloved father works as an account manager at a venture capital firm, which specializes in hospitality projects. He thought I acted hastily when I quit my sous chef position six months ago. Of course, I haven’t shared with him the exact words my jerk ex-boyfriend said to me before I walked out on him that day.
When my dad made me promise I wouldn’t date my new boss, he knew the scenario he was setting into motion. I can’t determine if this is plain cruel, or it’s just my father’s way of forcing me to tackle my problems head-on instead of running away from them. Or maybe my father actually thinks he can force a reconciliation between Edward and me.
No. I’m pretty certain he hates Edward as much as I do, after the six months of job-rejection-hell he put me through.
Well, I’m not going to grovel at Edward’s feet for a job. And Daddy’s girl or not, I refuse to give my father the satisfaction of saying “I told you so” with respect to me quitting the last one. It seems I’m in for rejection number thirty-one.
I take a few steps into the kitchen and stop, my lip curling as I fix Edward with a piercing glare. Here we go.
Chapter 2
ALICE
I stare at Edward for a moment, taking in the confusing scene I’ve just walked in on. First, the guy standing next to him is plating a dish while Edward preps the meat. Edward is usually more of a finisher than a prepper. Second, the dish the other guy is working on appears to be some sort of Tomahawk steak topped with fried chicken. Third, Edward’s hairstyle seems shorter and messier than his usual neat quiff. And strangest of all, my ex-boyfriend, who claimed he would never defile his body temple with a tattoo, seems to have inked his entire left arm and part of his right arm.
Ollie clears her throat. “Ahem. Chef?”
Edward turns toward us and a huge, infuriatingly sexy grin spreads across his face. “Oh, hey. I didn’t see you there,” he says in his deeply rich British accent.
I fight like hell to keep from rolling my eyes at his greeting. It’s so typical of Edward to make everyone feel invisible.
His eyes lock on my face and there’s a strange—but brief—moment of recognition before he says, “You’re here for the interview, right?”
I can’t help but cock an eyebrow at his question. He’s acting as if this is our first time meeting. Like we haven’t seen each other naked about a hundred times?
He chuckles and begins saying something, but I barely catch every other word over the roar inside my head.
“I’m sorry… You must be… I do look a lot…”
He wipes his hands on his apron as he walks toward me.
I take a step back, and my voice climbs a couple octaves as he extends his hand toward me. “Are you seriously trying to shake my hand?”
Edward laughs again, and the sound both confuses me and puts me on edge. Why does his laugh sound…off? Everything about him seems different. But other than the tattoos and the hairstyle, I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Maybe it’s the mischievous glint in his dark eyes. Something that used to make him look sinister now makes him look devious, almost playful.
Or maybe it’s not Edward who’s changed. Maybe it’s me.
Just as this thought crosses my mind, he opens his mouth again. “I’m Ethan,” he says, one dark eyebrow flicking upward as he awaits my reaction.
For a moment, I wonder what on earth could have compelled Edward to change his name and get a bunch of tattoos. Did our breakup cause him to have some sort of mental breakdown? An identity crisis?
But just as I’m beginning to feel sorry for him, I remember a critical piece of information.
Edward mentioned once or twice that he had a brother who still lived in England. But did he ever mention his brother’s name? He certainly never mentioned they w
ere identical twins.
“You’re… You’re…” I can’t seem to say the word.
He nods. “Edward and I are twins.”
My heart pounds like a meat mallet against my chest. “You… You knew who I was when you agreed to this interview?”
“You mean, do I know what a brilliant sous chef you are?” he says, then gives a cute little shrug. “Of course. Everyone knows,” he replies. “But you’re not interviewing for the sous chef position.”
“Excuse me?” I blurt out.
He shakes his head. “No, no. You’re here for the hostess position, remember?”
His words are like a punch in the gut. I’m interviewing for a hostess position?
Wait a minute. No, that can’t be right. I specifically remember my dad saying the interview was for a sous chef position.
“What are you talking about?” I reply angrily as I glance around the kitchen at the rapt expressions. “Did you bring me here to humiliate me?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I brought you here to offer you a job as a hostess at the hottest new restaurant in New York, with the potential of a promotion to sous chef in six months.”
I open my mouth to curse him, then stop myself when his words register in my mind. “Potential?” I sputter.
He chuckles. “A bit entitled, are we?”
“Excuse me!”
His use of the royal “we” reminds me so much of Edward it makes me want to tighten my fingers around his sexy neck.