The Problem With Him Page 3

  But honestly it could have been any man. It could have been Endo. And he was almost fifty, balding and missing at least two teeth.

  “Me too.” He sighed. “Come on, let’s see how you did.”

  I stepped back against the doorframe, letting him lead the way. I hadn’t opened the door all the way to begin with and as he walked by me, his shoulder brushed against mine. Wyatt and I never touched. We kept our distance on purpose.

  Probably because when his warm, muscled shoulder touched mine, energy zinged between us. A sharp, hot current of tension. I jolted from the shock of it.

  And someone gasped. But it couldn’t have been me.

  God, I was starved for sex if contact so insignificant produced that much of a reaction from me. But it wasn’t only my lonely self-exile from the male population that forced a response from me. It was Wyatt. He seemed made of electricity. Hot and buzzing and intensely magnetic. It was like all that friction between us had been superheated and turned on high.

  Wyatt seemed to notice, pausing halfway through the door. His gaze moved toward me slowly, as if he had to mentally brace himself for what he would see.

  “I dare you to find something,” I blurted, hoping to cover my stupid reaction. My voice held strong despite my quivering courage.

  His eyes heated from my challenge, darkening in color and an inexplicable something else. He leaned down so that he could better capture my gaze. “And what do I get if I win?”

  The air between us surged with an electrical pulse. My eyebrows raised at the deep rumble in his voice, the way his cheeks warmed in the same way his eyes did. What was this? Some misplaced, late night impulse? Sleepy sexual confusion?

  No, those were crazy thoughts. If there was any confusion it was on my part only. Hadn’t we already established my absence of recent dates? Hell, my lack of social life period? I was exhausted and burnt out from working my ass off. And fine, maybe I was a little desperate for attention. But that didn’t mean I needed to throw myself at Wyatt—the very last person that would ever be interested in me.

  “Satisfaction for a job well done?” I suggested, turning my voice as platonically bland as possible.

  I expected him to roll his eyes or throw out an insulting barb. Instead, his voice dipped even lower and he murmured, “When it comes to you, Ky, satisfaction seems impossible.”

  I let out a sharp exhale as he walked away from me toward the two stations I’d cleaned. What was that supposed to mean?

  I sucked in my bottom lip and caught my teeth on the small hoop piercing in my lip while I watched him squat down and examine my work. Was that an insult? It felt like an insult.

  It also didn’t feel like an insult. It felt weird. I felt weird. And like someone had popped a bottle of champagne inside my body.

  Wyatt’s strong, tattooed hands moved equipment around, checking every nook and cranny. I watched him work, leaning back against a stainless-steel counter and crossing my arms over my chest. Typically, I would have immediately thrown something back at him. But at this point, in the wee hours of the morning, I didn’t have it in me. Instead, I stood there like an idiot waiting for him to find something to snipe at me about.

  He examined everything with a meticulous eye that I wanted to hate. Or at least resent. But I couldn’t. He had to be this thorough, this strict. It didn’t make working for him any easier, but at least this part of him I could respect. It killed me that he’d been given his job without so much as a consideration for anyone else in the kitchen. Okay, maybe he wasn’t horrible at it. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he deserved the job but he worked hard for it.

  I could be an honest, rational person and admit that.

  He turned around and caught me staring at his back. He didn’t flinch or call me on it. Instead, he retaliated with a slow perusal of my body. Starting at my Doc Martens boots and working his way up my body, pausing almost imperceptibly at my boobs that were pushed up in my tank top thanks to my folded arms. I shivered. And didn’t call him on it.

  Tit for tat. That’s how we played.

  “Did you wipe down the sous vide?” he asked, all business… all dark, mysterious man.

  Shit. I glared at the machine. This was part of Dillon’s station and I hadn’t realized it until now. Although now that he’d pointed it out, I had to admit it was obvious. I swallowed the bitter taste of pride. “I forgot…”

  I expected shouts and curses and frustration. Shockingly, he lifted one shoulder and said, “All right. I’ll deal with it.”

  I belatedly tried to hide my surprise. “It will only take me a minute,” I argued. “It’s my responsibility.”

  “No, it’s Dillon’s responsibility.” I opened my mouth instinctively to defend my friend, but he cut me off before I could get any words out. “It’s late, Kaya. Don’t argue with me. Go home and go to bed.”

  My spine straightened, and I felt the irrational sting of his dismissal. The normal part of my brain immediately threw up its hands, warning me to back down. He wasn’t trying to be mean or pushy. He was doing something nice.

  But that was where the emotional, sometimes illogical part of my brain stepped in, full of suspicion and serious crazy. “It’s fine. I should have done it before I bothered you. Not a big deal.”

  He shook his head and I could see frustration spreading through him. “I know it’s not a big deal. That’s why I’m going to do it.”

  “What? Are my standards not high enough for you?”

  His expression darkened. “Is that what I said? I’m trying to be nice. You have to work tomorrow.”

  “So do you.”

  “For the love of— Woman, you’ve got problems.”

  A burst of anger exploded inside me, like a firecracker exploding. Not the whole big show, just one singular Black Cat. A crackle of gunpowder and quick rage. “Yeah, no shit. My problem is you.” Even though I was furious with him, this was more familiar territory for us. We were back to normal and so, even in my insanity, I breathed easier. And for some reason that made me braver than usual. Stupidly brave and dangerously cocky. I poked him in the shoulder and said, “You’re my problem, Wyatt.”

  It was the second time we’d touched tonight and, like before, that charge of electricity snapped through the air and shocked my exposed skin. I tried to pull away, but he was faster than me, snatching my hand in his bigger, stronger, rougher one.

  “I realize that, Kaya. The whole fucking kitchen realizes it.” He stepped closer, his hand closing around my wrist and managing to make me feel tiny and delicate and overwhelmed all at once. “So how about when I’m trying to be nice, you let me.”

  Licking dry lips, I examined the emotion in his intense eyes, wondering if he was sincere or if I was unwittingly walking into some master trap. And while I was contemplating my next move, the demon witch that sometimes possessed my body, and more specifically my mouth, took control and the argument I’d been wanting to have for hours fell out unchecked. “Only if you let me finish the duck tomorrow night. Mine’s better and you know it.”

  His jaw ticked, and I struggled to swallow. He was so close. He’d shed his chef coat like I had, leaving most of his tattooed arms and neck exposed. The thin t-shirt he wore did nothing to contain the body heat radiating off him. And for some reason he smelled good. Too good.

  We’d been working for hours, trapped in this sweltering kitchen, surrounded by all kinds of food and spices. He should smell like grease and sweat at the end of a long, hard day. Contrarily, he smelled like fresh herbs, lemon peel, and the faint, woodsy scent of whiskey.

  I ran my tongue over my bottom lip again, suddenly feeling inexplicably thirsty.

  “I need you on sides,” he argued.

  “I’m better with protein.”

  Half his mouth kicked up on one side in a taunting smile. “You’re leveraging with the favor I’m going to do for you?”

  The demon inside me nudged my body forward, brushing it against his. “I’m going to let you clean the sous
vide machine and in return I’m going to let you put me on protein, yes. Win-win.”

  He shook his head back and forth slowly and let go of my wrist. “That’s the second time you’ve said that tonight. I think our definitions of winning are different.”

  I took three steps back and grabbed the counter with both hands, the sharp under-edge of it cutting into my palms, curbing the instinct to grasp his t-shirt with two fists instead. “Thanks, Wyatt. You’re the best.”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything, Kaya!”

  Grabbing my chef coat, I headed to the kitchen staff cubbies to retrieve my purse. Before I made my escape from the kitchen, I turned to face him and winked. “I think we both know you did.”

  I didn’t wait around for his response, but I thought about the half smile he was wearing as I hurried across the dark parking lot to my pride and joy. I drove a 1988 Toyota Land Cruiser. She was vintage and sassy and unexpectedly cool. She also wasn’t in the best condition. I mean, she was thirty years old. Older than me. But her engine was solid and what she lacked in air conditioning, she cranked out in super lukewarm heat during the cold months.

  The night air revived my senses during my quick jaunt to my SUV and gave my brain renewed energy. That was when I realized how ridiculous I had behaved. My body thought Wyatt was flirting with me, but my mind had finally realized that this was Wyatt, and Wyatt didn’t flirt with anyone, let alone with little old me—his arch nemesis. Exhaustion and the chemicals from the deep clean had momentarily erased my ability to think clearly.

  The fresh air renewed my semblance of sanity. Rational and realistic once again. Wyatt wasn’t flirting with me. And he wasn’t sexy, even when he was sleeping at his desk. And I didn’t enjoy it the few times we’d accidentally touched each other tonight.

  Obviously.

  That’s why I had stopped thinking about him and my skin had stopped buzzing from where I’d felt him.

  Or I had done the opposite of those things. Argh!

  I dropped my forehead against the faded steering wheel and laughed at myself. This was out of control. What was wrong with me?

  I grabbed my phone from the depths of my purse and ignored the billion notifications from a solid day of ignoring it. I hadn’t checked it since before I got to Lilou. Now it was pushing two in the morning and I had a lifetime of social media to catch up on. Only it wasn’t going to happen tonight. And tomorrow I was due back at work at the same time… Maybe I could finally sit down and re-engage with society this weekend. Or maybe not.

  Dillon had texted me hours ago. I had intended to open her message and accept her well-deserved gratitude for cleaning her station. My next planned move was to demand that she find me a date to make us even and to make me sane again. Clearly, I needed to interact with the outside world. My workaholic propensity was driving me insane and if I didn’t do something about my libido I was likely to throw myself at the newest dishwasher. The actual machine, not Endo’s seventeen-year-old nephew. I was desperate, not a criminal.

  But her text totally derailed me, and I forgot about my weird night with Wyatt and my worrisome social calendar altogether.

  Dillon: Ezra said his head chef at Sarita quit tonight. YOU SHOULD GO FOR IT!

  What? What-what-what?!?

  Call me tomorrow, I demanded, knowing she was in bed by now. I want to know every single thing.

  Sarita was one of the four restaurants Ezra owned. All of them featured premier city dining and reputations of excellence. But recently, Ezra had struggled to find loyal chefs to head them. It wasn’t a total anomaly for our industry. Ego went a long way in this business and it was hard to find a chef that could back-up his claim to fame. And on the other side of the coin, Ezra was notoriously hard to work with.

  Before Killian left Lilou, Bianca lost her executive chef over creative differences with Ezra. Lilou had always been the shining jewel out of the four restaurants. Even with Wyatt, who had never been EC before, she still managed to maintain her top spot. But now that Sarita was without a chef, Ezra had to be freaking out.

  The constant turnover was a testament to how persnickety Ezra could be as a manager. This was not a secret. Even Killian had struggled working for him, and they were best friends.

  Ezra was opinionated, stubborn, and emotionally invested in every aspect of his restaurants.

  I’d enjoyed watching Wyatt struggle for the past few months. It was fun for me. Not so fun for him. Ezra and Wyatt argued about everything. I’d walked in on them several times having explosive menu disputes.

  The same had been true when Killian worked at Lilou too, but the difference was Wyatt managed to be more stubborn. Or maybe Ezra was tired of fighting the same battles. Regardless, Wyatt had actually been winning lately and I had been excited for the small changes he’d managed to make to the archaic menu.

  But Dillon’s text changed everything. Bianca was still without a head chef, leaving Ezra extra vulnerable now that he had to deal with Sarita too. That, in turn, made him prone to make decisions he might not ordinarily make.

  I slumped in the driver’s seat and clutched my phone with two fists. A mixture of fear, courage, hope, and despair churned inside me. I wanted to believe I was good enough for this, that I could handle a kitchen of my own. This was what I had been working for since before I graduated high school. This was what I wanted more than anything.

  Could I run my own kitchen? Could I convince Ezra I could handle it?

  The number of women executive chefs compared to men was abysmal. We were highly underrated throughout the entire world. In of the top four restaurants in Durham, did I even stand a chance?

  My hands shook as I set my phone down and started my car. They didn’t stop shaking the entire way home. Or as I showered and washed my face and climbed into bed. This was it. This was my chance.

  Of course, I was going to take it. Of course, I was going to do whatever it took to make that restaurant mine, to prove what a kickass, capable chef I was. Sarita was the perfect restaurant for me. The vibe, the food, the culinary profile? It was everything that I was.

  I was made for that restaurant. And there was nothing anybody could do to stop me. I would throw myself into this wholeheartedly, dedicating all my resources and time to get this job. I would do whatever it took to land this once-in-a-lifetime position.

  I merely had to stop thinking about Wyatt’s stupid half-smile first and the text he sent right before I drifted off to sleep.

  Proteins are yours again, Swift. But only if you do them as well as you cleaned your station tonight.

  He’d finished the text with a winky face emoji just to be smartass. And I accidentally fell asleep smiling.

  Chapter Three

  I woke up the next morning later than I’d wanted. It was a little before eight in the morning when I finally dragged my butt out of bed, but since I didn’t finally nod off until after three, I felt justified sleeping in.

  I growled at my clock. Was this really considered sleeping in? Five hours of sleep was overdoing it? God, I was a masochist. And the crazy thing was that I knew I was asking for more. If I ever landed an executive chef position, whether it was Sarita or something completely different, I could forget about sleeping altogether.

  Wyatt, for example, didn’t leave until after I did, and he would already be at Lilou this morning accepting deliveries and taking care of the business side of his job. It wouldn’t be like that forever of course. Occasionally, Wyatt and I accepted deliveries for Killian to let him catch up on sleep. But it wasn’t like Killian took vacations. Wyatt was the same. He would never be able to entrust Lilou to someone else.

  And if I managed to finally secure the job I wanted? I would follow suit.

  What had Dillon said about Ezra? This was the first vacation he had ever taken.

  This was a special kind of club for people that would rather work than live.

  Yes, this was my dream job and I loved it with every ounce of my being, from my very bones to the metaphysic
al pieces of me that didn’t even have a name. This was what I was born to do, this was my gift to the world, what I would give away and give away until there was nothing left of me. But I also hated it sometimes and the payment it required from me.

  My soul had been given purpose and my life had been gifted meaning, but the blessing of finding the thing I was meant to do required daily sacrifice. I was convinced I would live my life doing what I loved, but that what I loved would eventually kill me.

  It was a morbid way to think about my job, but it was true. And it was true for all of us. Food was art for us. And we poured ourselves into it, into the creation, perfection, reputation, and also the branding and legacy. Working in the culinary field took everything from us and we welcomed it willingly.

  Because we loved it. I loved it. I had never loved anything more than this… cooking… creating… working with food. Cooking defined me. It was my sum total. And all I wanted to do was grow. I wanted to get better and better and level up in big ways in my career, but those felt like natural progressions as my love for this thing got deeper, consumed more of me, as we moved together through this little life of mine.

  I couldn’t continue as Wyatt’s sous chef forever. Not only because we had the most dysfunctional relationship in the history of culinary arts, but I wanted more than second in command. There was more to me than working for Wyatt. I was as good as him if not better. I needed my own kitchen. I would do anything for it.

  On top of that reason, there was this thing inside me that would never be satisfied living in another man’s shadow. Maybe especially Wyatt’s. Call it pride or drive or a greedy fucking monster, but I could not spend my life working as hard as I did just to hand the credit to someone else.

  I wanted the glory. I wanted the fame. I wanted the massive responsibility that could go up in flames in any given second. I wanted it.

  And I was going to get it.

  Sarita was the perfect dining experience for me. We were made for each other. She was Ezra’s most eclectic restaurant, specializing in tapas and craft cocktails. She had flamenco nights, live bands, and a chef’s table that featured a fifteen-course meal. Sarita had personality and a gypsy vibe that made my heart ache with solidarity.