Faking It With the Boss

by Nikki Chase

  Claire

  “Oh my God, oh my God,” I murmur to myself as I whip out my phone and frantically scroll through it, clicking on article after article with Ben’s name and my name all over. With every tap of the screen, my heart sinks lower.

  “How the hell did this happen? Who talked to the media?” he asks, glaring around at the staff scattered throughout the kitchen. The muscle in his neck tenses. He doesn’t have to say much to relay the message that there’s hell to pay if someone in this kitchen has done this.

  Everyone shrugs and looks confused, avoiding eye contact with Ben. If someone is playing an elaborate trick on us, they sure as hell aren’t owning up to it.

  “None of us would do something like that,” one of the sous chefs speaks up.

  Chef Alonso folds his arms over his chest, nodding in agreement. “Si, Ben. Don’t take this the wrong way, but we all have better things to do than pull pranks on you.”

  “Maybe it’s just a mistake,” Ben grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. “A misprint or something.”

  “It’s not just that one article, Ben. There’s a bunch of them, all saying the same thing. They seem to think that surprise party was an engagement party,” I tell him, wincing as I skim the headlines. “Look at this one: Wedding Bells Ring for Ritzy Restaurateur Ben Graham. And another one: Mystery Female Snags Foxy Fine Dining Fellow.”

  “Wow, they really love their alliteration, don’t they?” Chef Alonso chuckles. I’ll admit the headlines are pretty clever, and Ben is foxy.

  “This isn’t funny, Jorge,” Ben groans. “The publicity from our supposed engagement is overshadowing the story about Ocotillo opening. We have to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Oh wait, here’s one that looks more specific,” I mention, squinting at my phone. “This dumb gossip website says there was a domestic partnership agreement signed. By the two of us. Wait. What?”

  “A domestic partner—oh no,” Ben mutters, his dark eyes closing.

  “What? What is it? What does that even mean? We didn’t sign anything,” I protest.

  He sighed and looked over at me with a world-weary look on his handsome face.

  “Seriously, it’s baseless. Just some rumor. We didn’t do anything like that,” I insist.

  “Yes,” Ben sighs, “we did. That business partnership agreement. We signed that late last night when we were . . . when we’d had a few glasses of champagne.”

  “Oooh. That’s never a good idea,” Chef Alonso murmurs, grimacing at the both of us.

  I wrack my brain trying to remember what happened. Ben and I were both so stunned and happy last night (not to mention that we were on edge from being around our parents) that we probably got a little too sloppy with the refills of bubbly.

  “Again, Jorge— read the room, man,” Ben says, flashing the chef a warning glance.

  He holds up his hands in mock surrender and pretends to zip his lips.

  “So what? Did some crappy photog with a deadline snap a photo of us signing the business agreement through a window or something? I mean, it couldn’t have been anyone we know,” I suggest, scratching my head.

  My stomach is twisting into knots. The last thing I want is for some bizarre fake news story to unravel my plans of working in the restaurant, not to mention make things weird between Ben and me.

  Being around him already makes me feel like a schoolgirl with a crush. I don’t need to feel like a schoolgirl with a crush whose entire class is teasing her about it.

  “Maybe we just have to wait awhile and let the publicity die down,” I offer. “This is Vegas. There’s a ton of other rich, famous people making headlines around here. People will forget all about this and move on.”

  “No, Claire,” Ben says. Despite the situation we’ve got on our hands, my heart races a little faster when my name slides out from his mouth—it has never sounded so good. Ben takes out his phone and taps furiously. “The story wouldn’t have gotten so out of hand if it was just based on a made-up rumor. I bet you this is on public record. Let me look it up and see.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re starting to buy into the story yourself now,” I scoff, hoping to any deity that would hear that this isn’t really happening. “Come on. I think we’d both remember signing a domestic partnership agreement. We didn’t have that much champagne. We can both read.”

  I watch as he silently mouths the words of an article on his screen, his face getting ashen and pale. “Ben, what’s wrong? What’s it say?” I ask nervously.

  “Uh oh,” whispers one of the souls chefs. Chef Alonso elbows her.

  Ben slowly looks up at me, shaking his head. He runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair, massaging his scalp as if to get rid of a throbbing headache. “It’s on public record, Claire. We signed the wrong form. We applied for a domestic partnership.”

  Chef Alonso lets out a low whistle as my jaw drops and my face starts to burn.

  “No way. No way. Oh God,” I groan, covering my face with my hands.

  “Yeah. We messed up big time,” he growls. “I just don’t understand how the papers could’ve gotten this screwed up. I’m so careful. I run everything by my lawyer before it even crosses my desk. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “So, are we . . . married? Or something? How does this work?” I lament. “Holy crap, what a mess.”

  “Let me Google how to fix this right now,” Ben insists, frowning at his phone as he types away at it fiercely.

  “I have a feeling this might be one mistake Google doesn’t have the answer to,” Chef Alonso murmurs.

  The full weight of our mistake starts to dawn on me, and I feel sick to my stomach. My knees go weak and start to buckle underneath me, and I have to reach out and ran hold of the corner of a work counter to hold myself steady.

  One of the sous chefs, a sweet girl named Rita, rushes over to give me some water. Wordlessly, I sip it through a straw, still staring down at the floor.

  I can see my dream slipping away from me. Instead of becoming known as a chef, I’ll forever be remembered as that girl who was married to Ben Graham just to get her fifteen minutes of fame.

  “Stop gawking, everyone. We have a lunch rush to deal with. Back to work!” Chef Alonso shouts, clapping his hands together.

  Immediately the staff gets to work, and I heave a sigh of momentary relief. At least now they aren’t all staring at me.

  Ben comes rushing over to me all of a sudden, looking excited and determined. “Okay, here’s the deal: we can fix this,” he says, patting my shoulder, causing a thrill to run down my spine at the contact. Or maybe I’m just happy to hear the hope in his deep, silky voice.

  “Alright. How?” I ask.

  “It looks like the domestic partnership or whatever is easy enough to undo. We just have to file for dissolution,” he explains.

  “How long does that take?” I press him nervously.

  “I don’t know. But we’ll get to it as soon as possible. As for the business partnership, we can just fill it out and re-submit that at a later date. For now, let’s focus on fixing the first problem, okay?” Ben asks firmly, sounding like he’s got everything under control now.

  I nod, even though I can feel my chin quivering and my eyes burning with tears. I don’t know if I’m feeling relieved or guilty or both. I try to hold it back, plug the hole in the dam and stop it from bursting.

  When I speak, my voice is thin. “It sounds complicated. I’m so sorry, Ben. I-I don’t know what happened. I should’ve noticed those details. I should’ve read the terms of the agreement better. I should’ve—”

  “Hey, hey,” he says softly, pulling me into a tight hug and patting my back as the tears finally roll down my cheeks. I feel like I’m in a safe space now where I can let it out. I press my face against his chest, letting him stroke my hair gently and reassuringly.

  “All I wanted was to work in a fancy kitchen and fulfill my dream. And now look what happened. Oh god, I’m such a disaster of a person,” I w
hisper.

  “It’s okay. We’re going to fix this, Claire. Don’t worry, and don’t you dare blame yourself. We’re in this bullshit mess together, and we’re going to be just fine,” Ben tells me.

  “If I had just been more careful. If I had just stopped drinking after the first glass of champagne. Ugh, I’m such an idiot for letting this happen. I’m sorry,” I ramble tearfully.

  He gives me a tight squeeze and says, “Hey, I got this. We’ll fix it. It’s just a stupid piece of paper with some signatures on it. No big deal. Nothing to lose your mind over, that’s for sure. I’ll take care of it myself. You just keep focusing on your training, alright? You’re a promising young chef, and I’m not going to let something like this ruin your career. Or mine. Got it?”

  I sniffle and nod, stunned at how kind and soft he can be.

  If someone had told me yesterday that Ben Graham, hard-nosed businessman, harsh critic, and by-the-books, type-A restaurateur would be giving me a hug and drying my tears, I’d never have believed it.

  In fact, I’m so shocked that I actually stop crying and just look up at him. As soon as his eyes lock with mine, my heart skips a beat.

  Maybe he isn’t such a bad guy, after all. A terrible driver with a cocky attitude, perhaps, but at least now I know he can be calm and collected in the middle of a crisis. Compared to my tendency to panic and have a meltdown, it’s a pretty impressive skill to have.

  And I can’t pretend I don’t feel that same strange jolt of electricity between us. I don’t know what it is, but I do know one thing: Ben Graham is much more than meets the eye.

  Ben

  Even in the middle of an otherwise chaotic kitchen, I feel Claire’s warmth in my arms—it helps me forget about the mess that’s happening. The scent of her fills my nose and gets my blood running hot, and I want to squeeze her tighter into me.

  I want to walk her back to the counter and press a kiss into her, bending her backward over the hard surface so I can feel her better and show her how I’d treat someone I’m really engaged to.

  Those thoughts start to get me wrapped up in my own head and make my cock stir between my legs. I want to kiss her. How would she take it? Would she like it? Would she push me away? Could it ruin this whole business plan, or comfort her in the middle of a crisis?

  I snap back to the real world when a waiter suddenly throws the kitchen door open and sweeps in, eyes locking on us immediately.

  “Um, sir,” the waiter says as I break the hug and glare at him. “And ma’am,” he adds to Claire, “both your parents are here for lunch, they wanted to ask if you could spare a moment and come say hello.”

  Impatience wells up in me, but the apologetic look on the waiter’s face reminds me that this was in no way his fault, so I take a deep breath and count to ten.

  “Chef Alonso,” I say, looking over to Jorge, “can-”

  “I’ll survive without her for a few minutes,” he says quickly, waving me off, “but no more than that. Go!”

  I give a sharp nod to him and then to Claire, and we set out into the restaurant to confront our parents.

  Some of the guests lift their heads from their meals to watch us as we walk across the restaurant floor, and I wonder if they’ve heard the latest celebrity gossip. I want to hold out hope that not many people keep up with that in general, that maybe they’re just staring because we own this business, but whatever. I have other things to worry about now.

  Our parents are sitting at a corner table by the window. Claire’s parents face us, and they wave us over when we’re halfway across the restaurant.

  “Oh, my baby!” Castilla gushes, standing up to give her daughter a hug and kisses on the cheek before she can even react. My own parents stand up too, Dad giving me a firm handshake and Mom a European kiss.

  “We heard the news just as we were walking in,” my mom says, squeezing my hand before sitting down.

  Claire and I exchange a quick glance before taking our own seats. Claire opens her mouth to speak, but her mom beats her to the punch.

  “I am just so thrilled that this is working out the way we hoped!” Castilla blurts, her face delighted. “We knew the two of you working so close together might bring you even closer, but I never thought it would build up so fast.”

  Claire frowns. “I—”

  “You’re moving awfully fast, you know that, right?” her dad interrupts, chuckling. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—we all had whirlwind relationships too, you know. When it happens, it happens, and when you know, you just know.”

  “I just wish you would have said something!” my mom interjects, crossing her legs and giving me a pointed smile. “You never struck me as the types who might surprise us like that. I’m not complaining, but a little notice might have been nice.”

  “What your mother’s saying is that she wishes we could have made that party the other night a real engagement party,” Dad explains with a smile. “Really though, congratulations, you two. This is fabulous.”

  “Oh, we’ll have to work out a date for the wedding soon,” Castilla says, clearly in her comfort zone. “What do you think, do they seem like summer wedding types, or something a little less traditional?”

  “The mountains are beautiful in the winter,” my mom adds.

  “Hey, can—” Claire tries to say.

  “Oh they are!” Castilla says with a wistful smile. “Can you just imagine the two of them under the arch with the sun setting behind them?”

  “Nothing’s tying us to the state, either,” my dad points out thoughtfully. “Somewhere on the west coast might not be a bad idea, especially if we want a better chance of getting these two some privacy from the presses.”

  “About that—” I start.

  “Oh Ben, by the way, you shouldn’t say those kinds of things in front of a camera,” my mom adds, frowning at me. “I know you’ve got the jitters, but that’s no way to talk about your soon-to-be wife.”

  “Really, just drop a text next time, hm?” Claire’s dad says with a chuckle.

  “Oh, we have to go to my friend Melanie’s designer bridal boutique opening this week,” Castilla says suddenly, eyes growing somehow twice as wide, and my mom’s face lights up as well. “They’d just die to have you for the grand opening!”

  “Oh, she finally got that off the ground? I’m so excited for her—Claire, dear, you’ll be in very good hands. Melanie went to school in Paris, the two of you would get along wonderfully. Oh, she just loves cooking, and-”

  “Stop!” Claire blurts out, and the whole table goes silent for a few moments, everyone staring at her.

  I’ve got to say . . . I’m impressed. Not many people can get my parents to stop chattering once they’ve started, especially when they’re excited. And I’ve never seen them this excited, not even when Blue Mojave was featured on Discovery Travel.

  “We’re just a little excited, honey, I know this is all happening a little fast,” Castilla laughs, waving a hand. “But if you want to complain about things moving too fast, you’re really not one to talk.”

  “I mean, stop trying to run my life for me,” Claire says in a firm and clear tone, making eye contact with each person at the table. “This is completely insane!”

  “Dear, we’re just trying to help you two out,” my mom says in that calm yet meaningful voice she uses when she’s trying to regain control of a conversation. It’s a handy skill for an attorney to have. “You’re very young, and while you’re obviously enthusiastic about all this, it’s a lot for anyone to get their head around.”

  “I appreciate it,” Claire says tersely, “but this is all—”

  I quickly grab Claire’s hand under the table and give it a reassuring squeeze.

  She looks at me, confused, and I subtly nod my head back at the crowded restaurant and the frantic shouts coming from the kitchen. I give her a look, sympathetic but urgent, and I hope she gets the message.

  I’m completely on board with whatever she’s about to say, but now is de
finitely not the time to have this conversation with our parents. She clenches her jaw, but she nods back to me, taking a deep breath and turning back to our parents.

  “I’ll decide when and where I get married,” Claire says carefully, “and I’m not having this conversation right now.”

  “We’re in the middle of a very busy grand opening,” I add, looking around, “which is going spectacularly, in large part thanks to Claire’s work, but we need to get back to it if we’re going to keep up at this rate.”

  “Let’s dial things back a few notches. This is . . . about as new and shocking for us as it is for you, let’s put it that way,” Claire says.

  “Very much so,” I add, running my hand through my hair.

  “Well, alright, son,” my dad says before the others can speak up, and I give him a grateful smile. “We’ll be here, just don’t do anything too crazy.”

  “Enjoy your lunch, and thanks again for coming by,” I say, taking Claire by the hand and standing up. It’s an almost unconscious action, but it feels right somehow.

  We say a brief goodbye to our parents, then hurry back toward the kitchens and sweep in through the door, closing it behind us.

  “Oh. My. God,” Claire says, leaning back against the door and clenching her eyes shut. “What did we do to get the most aggressively supportive parents in the city?”

  “At least they’re not angry,” I say. “Last thing we need is a scene out there.”

  “Yes,” Jorge shouts across the kitchen at us, “because we’ve already got a scene back here! Claire, I need you helping Natasha with those eggs five minutes ago!”

  “Yes, chef!” Claire says on reflex, and we look to each other for one last moment.

  “We’ll talk to our parents after work tonight,” I say, squeezing her shoulder. “Promise.”

  I wouldn’t touch most employees like that, but Claire seems to be comforted by it, and the warm smile she gives me before darting off makes me feel at ease.

  Once she’s gone, I head back out to the restaurant floor to make sure no other crisis is unfolding. I could really use a drink, but I also need to be in top form.