Faking It With the Boss

by Nikki Chase

  He’s what the tabloids like to call a “real estate mogul” which is just a fancy name for a guy who knows how to play the market and how to network with the best of them. If there’s an up-and-coming neighborhood or a happening, new restaurant opening up in town, you can bet there’s a good chance my father’s got an invested interest in it somehow.

  Oddly enough, I did think about coming here for dinner once. But when I pulled up the menu online, I took one look at the steep prices, laughed out loud, and decided against it.

  Mojave Blue is the kind of place where you go to see and be seen. It’s in an old brick building renovated to look like a moody, hip, hole-in-the-wall restaurant, with blue neon fixtures casting the whole main dining room, which is big enough for only about six tables, in an almost unearthly, pale light. The unassuming exterior, contrasted with the trendy interior, lends the place an air of exclusivity.

  In a city that thrives on the VIP lifestyle, I can see exactly why Ben’s first restaurant here in Vegas is such a wild success.

  All I know about the new restaurant he’s opening up is that it will be called Ocotillo, and that he’s poured a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into making it happen. Oh, and that he’s got a world-renowned, Michelin-star head chef to lead his new kitchen staff there.

  That’s why I’m here tonight: to interview for a position working under that famous chef at the new restaurant when it finally opens up. But of course, since Ocotillo isn’t finished being renovated yet, I got an email from Ben yesterday, instructing me to meet him here at Mojave Blue for a sort of culinary audition tonight.

  I was up all night researching, experimenting in my kitchen, putting together a recipe with which to impress him. I decided on a tried-and-true recipe I’ve made a few times before, something that never fails to make a good impression. I only hope it’s up to Ben’s sky-high standards.

  So here I am, bent over a pot of simmering posole rojo, trying to keep from having a full-blown panic attack in the Mojave Blue kitchen.

  Ben is here, too, hovering around me and sauntering through the kitchen dressed in a perfectly-tailored black suit. His dark hair, partially slicked back, is starting to fall loose around his temples. That skinny tie he usually keeps so tight has been loosened, flung over his left shoulder.

  He looks even hotter than I remember from before. I don’t know how that’s possible, but by God, he’s managed to pull it off somehow.

  In fact, when he removed his black suit jacket to reveal the starchy, white button-up underneath and then had the audacity to roll his sleeves up to the elbows, showing off his muscular forearms—well, I felt the breath catch in my throat.

  No matter how hard I try to focus on the tasks at hand, I can’t help but feel a little distracted by Ben’s presence. He exudes confidence and sensuality just by simply existing, whether he’s leaning coolly against the wall or brushing past me just close enough for me to catch a sniff of his expensive cologne.

  Ben Graham is the very epitome of sophistication. He manages to be both charming and aloof at the same time, and I find my eyes drawn to his every move. Especially now that we’re alone, just the two of us in a partially-darkened chef’s kitchen.

  He’s watching me from across the room, those intense, hawkish dark eyes scrutinizing my technique. I get the sense that Ben is even smarter and more intuitive than he looks. That makes me a little bit nervous.

  I know that if I make any mistake, no matter how tiny and seemingly insignificant, he will notice it. And the position opening up at Ocotillo is too precious and rare for me to pass up. It’s my dream job.

  I have to get this right. I have to nail this interview-slash-audition.

  “So, you went to culinary school?” he asks coolly from across the kitchen.

  I nod, gazing down at the big metal stockpot of spicy, red stew. “Yes, sir. I graduated this past spring,” I reply.

  “How did you like it?”

  “Oh, I loved it. I feel really at home in a kitchen. And I think culinary school really helped me sharpen my skills. Taught me endurance, too. We were in the kitchen for long hours at a time, but it always went by so quickly for me because I enjoy it so much,” I answer, hoping I’m not laying it on too thick. I’m telling the truth, but the last thing I need is for Ben to think I’m trying to suck up or something.

  Ben asks, “And have you worked in a restaurant since graduating?”

  My heart sinks. That is the question I’ve been dreading the most. “Um, yes. Well, kind of. I’ve been working at a… a very casual restaurant.”

  He strolls across the kitchen to stand next to me, and I can feel his dark eyes watching me intensely. “Casual? In what way?”

  “It’s just a fast food place,” I admit with a sigh. “It’s called the Patty Hut. I put that in my resume. I’m not proud of it, exactly, but it pays the bills for the time being.”

  I glance up to see him smirking, his eyes totally unreadable. “Yes. I saw that. I just wanted to hear you say it in your own words. I have to admit, I do have my doubts, considering you have no real restaurant experience besides being a burger-flipper, but that’s why I asked you to cook something for me. It’s a chance for you to showcase your skills beyond what your work history has to suggest.”

  “This is almost done. I just need to plate it,” I tell him, doing my best to ignore his cocky attitude.

  I’m already self-conscious about my work experience . . . or lack thereof. I don’t need him to remind me.

  He stands over me while I ladle some of the pork stew onto a plate. I can feel the warmth radiating from his powerful body. I can smell his cologne mingling with his own musky, masculine scent.

  I don’t know if he’s doing this on purpose to distract me, but it’s definitely working. Still, I manage to hold it together as I hand him the stew.

  As he takes it from me to inspect and taste it, I stand back and spout off the script I’ve prepared, “This is my own recipe for posole rojo with slow-simmered pork, white hominy soaked overnight for tenderness, roasted ancho chiles, onion, garlic, cumin—the works. I’ve garnished it with thinly-sliced radish, ripe wedges of avocado, a dollop of jalapeno-infused sour cream, sprigs of fresh cilantro, and vibrant, red ocotillo flowers for a splash of local color and flavor. I hope you like it.”

  I hold my breath, watching him lift the spoon and take a bite. A tingle runs down my spine as he licks his lips, and despite how nervous I am, there’s a part of my brain that immediately wonders what it would feel like to kiss those lips.

  Jesus, Claire. Get your mind out of the gutter, I scold myself silently.

  A thoughtful expression crosses his face as he tastes the dish and inspects my plating arrangement, and then, to my infinite relief, he smiles. “This is fantastic. You’re hired.”

  “Yes!” I squeal, unable to keep myself from jumping up and down. I’m so excited to have finally landed my first real restaurant job that I nearly knock the dish out of his hands in a rush to hug him.

  Ben chuckles a little, caught off-guard by my reaction, but he sets down the bowl and rather awkwardly pats my back as I squeeze him. My heart is racing, every nerve in my body on fire, but my excitement turns to something more serious as his strong arms wrap around me in an embrace.

  Wow, this feels so good, being wrapped in his arms, my cheek pressed against his muscular chest. He smells fantastic, and this feels so natural. Our bodies seem to align together so perfectly.

  Damn it, Claire. You’ve just been hired. Don’t screw this up.

  Ben is my boss now, and it’s probably not super appropriate for us to hug like this . . . even if it makes my whole body thrum with yearning.

  I break away from him, still grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you so much for the opportunity.”

  There’s a flicker of softness in his eyes before he regains his usual cool composure and nods curtly. “You’re welcome. You might want to call that fast-food job tomorrow and tell them you’re quitting, because you start working fo
r me on Monday. You’ll be training here under Chef Alonso until the new restaurant opens up. That work for you?” he asks.

  I’m so excited I feel like my heart might explode. I bite my lip and nod fervently. “Yes, sir! This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of. I promise you won’t regret this. I’ll make you proud.”

  Ben

  “Alright, alright,” I laugh, fighting the urge to grab her right here and do things a good employer shouldn’t do to his employee. Just like I remember, Claire’s excitement is infectious. It’s nice to know some things don’t change, at least. “Let’s save some of that energy for Monday. You’re going to need it.”

  My heart is still pounding hard from the hug she gave me. It came and went so fast that it left my head spinning. I didn’t expect that. It’s weird enough hearing her call me ‘sir,’ not to mention everything else. But she’s letting a little more of her personality shine through, and I would be lying if I said I don’t like what I see.

  “Right! Right,” she says, unable to keep the big smile off her face. “Okay, so . . . what happens now?”

  “Now, I ask you if you’d like a walk to your car, and you go enjoy the rest of a sleepless night,” I say, confident that I’m right about the latter part. A part of me hopes she’d be thinking about something more than just her new job, though. Maybe she’s just as affected by the hug as I am . . . or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

  Claire catches her lip between her teeth thoughtfully, oblivious to how sexy she looks right now. “Sure I can’t help clean up around here?” she asks, glancing around the kitchen. “I’d feel bad leaving this on you.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I say, wondering if she’s just looking for an excuse to spend a little more time together. I definitely feel a little pang of something that she’s about to leave me all alone here in the kitchen. Something which normally wouldn’t faze me at all. “I’m a hands-on kind of guy, I like rolling my sleeves up and getting my hands dirty now and then.”

  The wording makes a little color come to Claire’s cheeks, and she quickly turns her head to glance out the window to hide both her blush and her smile. I tell myself it’s just the jitters from being offered the job, but damned if she isn’t adorable.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” she says. “I’m parked, like, right around the corner, so don’t worry about me.”

  “If you’re sure,” I say, resisting the urge to insist on not just walking her to her car, but also driving her all the way to her place. Maybe she’d invite me up or something . . . but that would be the worst idea in the world. She’s my new hire and my parents love her. I can’t treat her like some chick I’ve just casually chatted up at some bar. “I’ve got your email and phone number, so I’ll be in touch very soon with some details.”

  “Fantastic,” she beams.

  “Fantastic,” I repeat, and a somewhat tense silence falls between us before she finally runs her hand through her silky hair and points to the door.

  “Right. Going now. For real this time. Thanks again!”

  I follow her to the door and push it open for her after she gathers her things, and I watch her as she walks away.

  Everything about the way she moves sticks out as if my mind is hyper-focused on her form. I read her gait, pick up on the emotions in her every step, watch the way she brushes her hair aside and fumbles for her keys in her purse, and I can’t help but feel almost hypnotized by the sway of her hips. Once she rounds the corner and clicks her key, I see the blink of her headlights and turn back inside, letting the door close behind me.

  Finally alone, I run my hands over my face.

  I’m in trouble.

  I walk back over to the remains of the dish that Claire prepared and pick at it more. I honestly wish I hadn’t eaten dinner already earlier that night, because it’s even better than I gave her credit for in that little working interview. It’s exactly the kind of thing I need at the new restaurant, and I already know Jorge will fall in love with it.

  It’s rare that I feel bad throwing away the remainder of a meal, and even rarer that I pack some up to take home with me, yet that’s exactly what I do with Claire’s dish.

  I wanted to tell her what I really thought of it, but I didn’t want to give her too big of a head before she even starts the job.

  Besides, my brain wasn’t doing a great job at coming up with words tonight. It was too busy reminding myself not to think about how her hair would feel tangled around my fingers, how her lips would look if I kissed her, how she would taste . . .

  The sight of her leaving will be stuck in my head all night.

  I have to be honest with myself and admit that her cooking isn’t the only reason Claire left me with such a good impression.

  She’s having an effect on me that I can’t deny. And if we’re going to be working together, God knows I’ll have to deny it to myself up and down.

  I’ve never had trouble with women. I worked out my college playboy days with a different girl in bed with me every other night, and as soon as I hit the real world, it was clear to me that college wasn’t the exception.

  That makes it all the more interesting when someone like Claire comes along and draws my attention as if she was born to have it. And that’s the strangest thing—I’ve never felt so affected by a woman as Claire. Never so intensely, so quickly. In the back of my mind, I’m coming up with excuses to run outside, chase her down, and find something else to talk to her about.

  The smell of her cooking hangs in the air, and I know I’m not going to be able to smell pork cooked that way again for a few weeks without thinking of tonight. I walk over to where she stood over the stove, and I catch a whiff of her strawberry shampoo.

  It’s all I could think of when I was standing behind her, and now that she’s gone, it’s still here to haunt me.

  I wanted to take it further than that hug. Way further.

  When she slung her arms around me, I wanted to hug her right back and walk her into the wall behind her and kiss her, pinning her between me and the cold tile so I could feel her warmth. I wanted to see what those hands could do in the most unprofessional way possible.

  The uniform she wore was several sizes too big, and it was adorable to see her swimming around in it. But I think it would look even better on the floor of my bedroom.

  I finish cleaning up and wipe my brow with my sleeve, making my way to the door before casting one last glance around at the kitchen and taking a deep breath before flicking off the light. There’s still a hint of her strawberry scent.

  Yeah, I’m in deep trouble if I keep Claire Madsen around.

  And so is she.

  “I’m not letting you open those doors without this on the menu. You know that, right?” says Jorge the next morning as he finishes his third bite of the leftovers I brought in of Claire’s dish. I grin and chuckle as we peer at my computer screen together. We’re working on the menu for the new restaurant together, something we’ve been waiting a long time to do. Now that we have real plans for the place, we can finally get to the fun part.

  “I don’t think I’d be opposed to that,” I admit. “Just tell her it was your idea. I don’t want to inflate her ego too much.”

  “Maybe her ego could use a good inflating,” Jorge says with a chuckle before setting the plate aside. “Okay, let’s get back to the appetizers. I wanted to pick a bone with you about this fish thing you’ve got going on, I-”

  A knock at the door interrupts us, and Jorge’s eyes flash up to it in irritation. Despite being down to earth most of the time, the star chef can’t stand interruptions. He and I are alike in that way.

  “Yes?” I call.

  The door cracks open, and a woman no taller than five feet with a sharp, foxish face sticks her head in.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Graham?” her squeaky voice asks.

  “Speaking,” I say evenly, raising an eyebrow. The woman quickly bustles in, taking that as an invitation, and I can see that she’s holding a stack
of papers.

  “Sorry for the interruption, I’m Andrea, Mr. Madsen’s PA,” she explains. I open my mouth to ask what he could want that can’t be handled over the phone, but she answers that by promptly setting the papers down in front of me while Jorge glares. “I have the rental agreement and business partnership contract for the restaurant downtown here. He said you’ve both looked at it over email, so I just need your signature here and here,” she rattles off so fast I can barely keep up.

  I haven’t looked at the contracts, but I know Harry is insistent on formalities like these. So without another word, I pull the contracts toward me and jot down my signature on each.

  “Anything else?” I ask curtly, hiding the fact that it’s actually pretty damn exciting to make things official. I can’t gush too much around people I don’t know.

  “Nope,” she chimes happily, taking the contracts back. “I wish half of Mr. Madsen’s friends were as brisk as you. Have a nice day.”

  Just as soon as she stormed in, she’s gone, and Jorge and I exchange a glance.

  “Maybe hiring an office receptionist is in order, down the line,” Jorge whispers to me with a conspiratorial wink, and I grin.

  “That, or maybe a new set of locks.”

  Claire

  “Claire! I need those scallops doused in lemon sauce and capers now. Go, go, go!” barks Chef Alonso from across the kitchen.

  “Coming, Chef!” I call back, wiping the sweat off my brow with my apron. I reach for a ladle to drizzle the golden sauce over four small plates of pan-seared scallops and then drop several artfully-placed capers on each of the dishes.

  From around the corner I hear the Michelin-star chef gasp and shout, “And don’t forget the sprigs of—”

  “Fresh tarragon, yep. I got it, Chef!” I interrupt with a chuckle.

  “Bueno, chica. That’s what I like to hear,” he replies. I grin to myself, exhilarated by another job well done.