I don’t know a thing about her, and already, I crave her.
I hate that I do. That loss of control, the feeling of being captive to something outside of myself, and finding it impossible to look away, think, or focus on anything else. It bugs the fuck out of me.
My dick feels it too.
I’m the guy mothers warn their daughters about. The one most likely to spend every waking moment figuring out how to close the deal and get a woman into my bed, only to cut her loose once I’ve had her. And I mean once. Second dates and second fucks are not in my vocabulary.
The worst part is they never see it coming. They notice the glasses, learn about my analytical prowess and size me up as the geek I truly am. Except, because of my fucking good looks behind these specs and the fact that I take damn good care of my body, words like sexy, hot and god end up added on to their description and perception of me.
And up until I see the hot little blonde across the room for the first time, that aspect of my sex life was more than satisfactory.
But now it’s not.
All of a sudden, I start to feel like it won’t be complete unless this girl has had the honor of meeting me. What scares me is that I catch my first glimpse of her here at the Rockefeller Center, and it’s as she emerges from the banquet kitchen speak to my mother, of all people.
That alone, the fact that she has any kind of formal or informal connection to Diane Worthington, should cause me to run in the opposite direction.
It doesn’t. And I don’t.
I just stand there surrounded by my friends and business colleagues by day, gazing at every detail about the cute little chef, even with my mother in my view. I should be appalled. But I’m not. It only serves to show how potent a response I’m having to her. Her image is imprinted in my mind long minutes after she returns to her post somewhere in the kitchen.
I want to know everything about her. Of course, I should take the initiative and approach her, but I talk myself out of it because she’s working and I’m here on account of needing to show my face, to not entirely fall out of my mother’s good graces.
The good thing is I now have two ways to find out more about my sexy little chef.
First, she clearly has a close personal relationship with Dahlia, Jackson’s date tonight. Their platonic yet intimate physical proximity as the two young ladies speak to each other tells me they may be best friends. I’m banking on that fact, in the hopes of crossing paths with her again, even if Jackson has no thought-out plans for his next date with Dahlia. The fact that she’s staying in the condo next to Jackson’s penthouse unit, pet sitting for his neighbor, well that gives me some confidence I’ll see Dahlia again, which means I’ll lay eyes on her sexy chef friend at one point or another.
As a last resort, there’s Mom. They spent over five minutes in conversation, a dialogue initiated by my mother, and I can tell from both their faces that the discussion is more than pleasant. Diane Worthington doesn’t usually spend that kind of time talking to the help unless she’s criticizing them or ordering them around. Even from my spot across the ballroom, it’s clear that there’s not any overly bossy energy or bad blood between them.
When my mother passes her a business card, I’m confident it’s a sign that they’ll connect again. Not in any capacity related to the career of the woman who brought me into this world. Mom’s a high-powered lawyer, a senior partner in one of the most respected firms in Manhattan. A young chef like that little blonde wouldn’t have a reason or the resources to hire Mom. Which means it’s the other way around. Diane wants something from her. And what my mother wants my mother gets. The little chef is going to reach out to Diane one day, so if I can’t get her number through Jackson and his date, there’s another option, through my flesh and blood.
I can’t wait to find out more about her.
My level of intrigue, attraction and curiosity don’t change one bit when I see her up close either. She passes by with a massive tray almost as big as she is, and serves the hors-d’oeuvres with adeptness and ease.
My dick stirs at the way her lips quirk up into a smile when our eyes meet. She knows I’ve been checking her out and it appears that she doesn’t mind it one bit. Sadly, I don’t make it to her in time to get a taste of whatever she’s serving, but that doesn’t matter.
I want a taste of something.
But not of the food.
* * *
By the next day, I quickly realize that if I don’t act fast, I may never have another chance with the sexy chef.
Thanks to Jackson.
Something happens between the time we spent at the gala and this morning. I make it into the office at Knights Capital, the hedge fund company we run jointly with his father, brother, and our two other friends, Caleb and Foster. Jackson’s office is next to mine, so I know, from the frenzied pacing in around the room to his numerous loud as fuck hails to Gemma, his secretary. My broody friend has done something to screw up this thing he has going on with his neighbor’s pet sitter.
Given that most of that period of time was the middle of the night, I can only imagine what it is.
I let myself into his office for our ten o’clock meeting and find him scrolling through the results of a web search on types of dahlia flower species. As he catches me heading in, he shakes his head and points to his landline speakerphone to point out that he’s in the middle of a call. Of course, I already know that because I passed Gemma, his secretary, on the way in here and it’s clear to me that she’s on the phone with him.
Taking a seat, I wait for him to wrap up and overhear him as he tells Gemma to pull out all the stops for a dahlia flower delivery order to his neighbor’s place. A big one. Something in the neighborhood of a roomful. It’s the kind of order that makes a statement. But from the scowl on his face, I know the statement isn’t one that says, “I had a great time,” or “thank you for letting me rock your world.”
He fucked up somehow, and these flowers represent one big apology.
“You had one job,” I mention lightheartedly after he hangs up.
“Fuck off, man.” He plants both hands on his desk and pushes off, moving his swivel chair backward. Then he turns around and stares pensively out the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the south end of Central Park.
“That bad, huh? What the hell did you do to her?”
“Leave it alone. It’s complicated.”
“Yeah. Right. Well if you won’t talk about it, let’s at least discuss the reason for this meeting in our calendar.”
“Sure. Whatever,” he mutters without looking my way. “Your assistant added the meeting, so what’s this about?”
“I’m not too comfortable with the amount of exposure we’re taking on for the Mont Blanc deal. I know, I’ve raised it before—”
“Numerous times,” Jackson cuts me off to add. “Last night included. Backing out isn’t an option.”
. “It’s that employee they call their VP of Risk Management. The man’s shady as shit.”
“Did you find out anything new about him since we talked last night?”
“Working on it. But just try to remember that we’ve quashed deals that are just as pivotal to the company,” I remind him.
“True. But those were different. And you know the difference between those deals and this one has to do with consensus.”
“I get that.”
“Look, I have my reservations too. The thing is, we’re in the minority this time. This behemoth of a deal is forging ahead, and the rest of the executive team needs you to do what you do best. Assess and analyze. Let me know if your findings reach a tipping point. If I agree then, you know I’ll have your back.”
“All right.” I get off the guest chair and head for the door, leaving with a dismissive hand gesture over my shoulder and add, “Just don’t fuck things up with the pet sitter so bad that it kills my chance with her chef friend right out the fucking gate, all right?”
“You didn’t make your move last ni
ght?” he asks. I turn in time to see a big fucking grin on his face. “Oh right, Diane was grilling her about something. Wait, was that for you? Don’t tell me you’ve got your mom setting up your dates for you now. I know you have the whole geek thing going on, but that’s a bit much don’t you think? What, you gonna move into your mom’s basement next? Start wearing pocket protectors?”
I straighten my glasses to make a point. “Dude. How about you fuck off and keep your eyes on your own personal shit.”
“Says the guy sticking his nose into my personal shit with Dahlia.”
“Yeah but that’s different, and you know it. I don’t want you poisoning the whole fucking well before the rest of us take a sip,” I say with a smile. “A big-ass rush order of a fuckton of flowers?”
He shakes his head, his face finally reflecting a sign of regret or guilt. “What are you doing over lunch?” he asks when I’m almost at the door.
“I’ll be around.”
“Did you drive yourself in?”
“When don’t I ever?” I have a bad case of automotive fixation. I love fast cars. It’s a hobby and a passion. So, there’s no way in hell I’ll ever cave and hire someone to drive me anywhere.
“I want to swing by my condo.”
“Don’t you mean drop by to see the pet sitter?”
“Okay fine. Call it checking in on the condition of my order of flowers. Which you should equate with un-poisoning the well, dickhead.”
“I see your point. You’re right. I’d better come along to make sure you get the job done with Dahlia. Meet you at my parking spot in a couple of hours, then. There’s some Mont Blanc and Pantheon shit I need to look into in the meantime.”
I may as well keep myself busy with work until I find out why I can’t fucking stay away from the sexy blonde chef.
I don’t even know the girl’s name.
Six
Emily
I make it to the condo where my best friend, Dahlia is pet sitting. My mind is blown. The main floor of the penthouse apartment is filled with her favorite flowers. They’re gorgeous, and they’re everywhere, filling the space with sweet scents that I’m sure will go great with what I’m about to make. In my view, only violets would make the gesture more special. I adore violets.
I adore these flowers too.
But Dahlia doesn’t. And she isn’t too impressed with me mentioning that it’s a sweet gesture from Jackson, her date.
She’s also not keen to tell me why a room full of the flowers she’s named after isn’t a good thing, so I fill her in on how the night went while I prepare a few appetizers for her to sample. In this business, using a new recipe is destined for failure without the taste test, preferably by non-chefs and a decent selection of taste buds sampling the final product.
I’ve gone all out with five new recipes for Mrs. Worthington’s event. I don’t just want that gig. I need it. It’ll be the most money I’ve ever been paid, so screwing it up is not an option. This is one time where mundane dishes that everyone else serves won’t cut it.
On top of that, I have a new job. Blair offered me a part-time job at his very upscale restaurant called Gauche. To say that I’m excited about the opportunity to work for him regularly is an understatement. I spent all night wishing our apartment had room for me to do cartwheels while Rosa and I shared a bottle of white wine to celebrate. A new job, possibly a real gig that pays thousands, well, it all feels like my life has transformed into my second most wished for fantasy.
Only one person is missing, but if I spend even a moment thinking about her, my entire mood will change. It’s the reason I take the day off every year on her birthday. I become way too emotionally raw to function. It’s one of the reasons I’ve never been in a serious relationship. Connecting with someone romantically will likely require me to open up about this part of my past, and how can I be open about it with someone else when I can’t face it myself?
While Rose was doing a psychology course in her undergraduate program, she told me that my mind is coping with the trauma of losing Joy by suppressing the memories of her. Maybe Rose is right. But I’ve found that the only way to make it through the day is to keep that part of my life neatly packed away, closed off from everything else. If I don’t, this accomplishment of being so close to graduating from culinary school, the part-time job, the possible gig, they’d all feel as empty as that small part of my soul that I try not to focus on.
Shoving the depressing thoughts away like I usually do, I turn on the stove. I find the two saucepans I brought with me in a separate bag on the counter. Pulling them out, I start the caramel glaze in one and warm up the second pan for the garlic sesame dip that’ll go with my jumbo shrimp appetizer. Each of the hors-d’oeuvres I’m planning has to be prepared at a different temperature, from hot to room temperature to straight from the fridge. It sounds like more work, but actually, a plan to serve this range of items will make it easier for me on the night of the event. I won’t be slaving over a slew of saucepans all at once.
As things are well in hand, I do my best to push Dahlia some more. I’m so curious to know how her night went, to hear her take on the event from a guest’s point of view. But she’s still not talking much, and when she does, it’s to rave about my career news or to dote on her fur babies. All I know is her evening crashed and burned at some point, and she blames it all on her date.
She also doesn’t have much of an appetite. Not a good state for my taste tester.
While I’m working on the sauces, there’s some ruckus with the dogs and Dahlia goes out onto the balcony to figure out what’s going on. From Dahlia’s accounts, they’ve been sneaking over to the neighbor’s side to make all manner of trouble for her. The next thing I know, she’s more frantic than before. I realize why when there’s a knock on the door shortly after.
I’m met by the tall, sandy-haired guy with glasses who had his eyes on me all night last night. He’s with a friend who introduces himself as the neighbor.
Damn, they’re both gorgeous.
I start to envy Dahlia all over again for lucking out on this gig. An exquisite condo to live in, even if it’s temporary. No subway transit all the way from Brooklyn to the Upper West Side. And hot, handsome men dressed in expensive business suits showing up at her door unannounced.
Lucky bitch.
After showing them in, I announce them to my bestie and return to the stove. The cute nerdy one follows me to the kitchen while his friend tries to have a conversation with Dahlia.
Considering that I’m here for her taste buds and she’s not in the eating mood, I figure, hell, why not go with the flow. Maybe the sexy geek is hungry.
“Hi, there,” I greet him. “Didn’t I see you at the gala last night?”
“Yeah.” He comes closer to the stove and leans against the counter nearby. He clutches the high-end smartphone in his hand as though it never leaves that position. But who am I to judge? I sleep with my chef’s knives under my bed, and it’s not for safety reasons. “What’s cooking?”
“Nothing much,” I answer.
“I bet your food’s anything but that.”
“Just some samples I brought over for Dahlia to try out. Want to try some? I can use a fresh set of taste buds while she’s busy with your friend.”
“Hell yes,” he answers. “Matter of fact, I’d be more than happy to volunteer if you’re ever looking for someone to taste…your food that is,” he adds with a wink.
Gosh, he’s a flirt too.
I point at the finished dishes. “Try any of those five at the end. I’m still working on the sauces for these two hot menu items.”
“What’s that one with the pears wrapped in bacon?”
“Bacon wrapped caramelized pears. Wait. Here.” A sudden dose of courage causes me to lift the spatula from that saucepan to his mouth. I must really like this guy. Being this forward is so unlike me. And I still don’t even know his name. “Taste it with this.”
My stomach does a flip as he s
teadies my hand with his at my wrist, lowering his head until his lips are level with the spoon.
“Wow.”
“Good?” I ask.
“Delicious. Thanks for the sample. There was no doubt in my mind that it’d be anything but. The menu last night was a hit, which is a pretty big accomplishment for such a picky crowd.”
“My head chef prefers to call it discerning.”
“However you call it, the guests you served happen to have high expectations, and your team managed to impress them all. I’m Dylan, by the way.”
“Emily Fields.”
I catch the smile that rises on his face, as well as the deep dimple on one cheek, and quickly return my gaze to the saucepans. If I keep looking at this man, there are sure to be more features I’ll find myself ogling at on his chiseled face and ripped body under that business suit.
“You give everyone your full name when you meet them?”
“I have my reasons,” I say, but don’t go into heartbreaking details. “It’s mostly force of habit.”
“Interesting.”
“Knowing someone’s full name can be a lifesaver. What’s your last name?”
“Worthington.”
Oh crap. I’m sure he notices my eyes as they widen. I study his features more closely, searching for a resemblance. “Are you related to Diane Worthington, the exec who helped organize last night’s event?”
His arms fold at his waist. He comes to stand beside me. “Why do you ask?”
“She might be a new client of mine. It’s for a catering job a few weeks from now.”
“To answer your question, that would be a yes. Congrats and good luck with the job.”
“Thanks. Any tips?”
“Keep your cool under pressure. Under-promise, over-deliver, and be really early.”
“You don’t sound too thrilled about being related to her.”
“We don’t get to choose our parents, and sadly, not all of us are lucky to have the nurturing ones.”
The temptation to tell him he’s lucky to have a parent who’s alive at all is at the tip of my tongue, but I manage to keep it to myself. No point pissing off my first client’s kid. “She’s your mom?” I ask instead. “She seemed nice.”
The Billionaire and the Virgin Chef: Seduction and Sin, Book 4 Page 3