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My cock jolts in my pants at the stunning little fantasy she’sconcocted for me. Her face messy and her tits splattered and sticky—my cum would be a perfect garnish on her pretty skin. Her golden hue deepens at her cheeks when she realizes she’s been more informal with her potential boss than is appropriate.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” she gasps, panic written across her face as she covers her mouth with her hand.

I can’t help but laugh. “No need to apologize, but maybe refrain from talking about your tits in the kitchen, especially when it’s just the two of us alone.” I allow myself to draw a little closer but still far enough that she’s beyond my reach. I can’t promise to keep my hands off her if I’m within touching distance of the temptation. And Trisha wouldn’t thank me for the HR nightmare. “The last thing I need in my kitchen is a scandal.”

“No, of course. I’m sorry, it just slipped out. Won’t happen again, chef.”

“Good,” I respond while hoping for the exact opposite. I hope she lets it slip enough times that I get to punish her for it. “Let me find you something to wear.” Feeling her eyes follow me, I walk to the locker room and find a collection of grey aprons that my chefs wear during the week. I pass those and grab my own apron from the single hook on the back wall.

It is common knowledge that the black apron is mine. No one would dare touch it, so I can’t explain what possesses me to walk out of the storage room and hold it out to my treacherous angel. “Here,” I rasp, my voice suddenly thick and strained. “Can’t have you getting dirty.”

“Thank you,” she answers in a strange tone, and I wonder if she can sense the wicked desire in my words. She accepts the apron, and our fingers brush for a moment so small it should mean nothing at all. So why does it feel like fire grazed my fingertips and left its charred sting behind?

Keenly aware of the time that’s been ticking away, she throwsthe apron over her head and frees her mass of curls from the band before fumbling with the ties at the back.

“Allow me,” I say, all too aware that the words sound more like a command than chivalry.

She lowers her arms and waits patiently with her back turned. I hesitate only a moment before striding two steps forward and clutching the apron in my hands. My eyes flutter shut at the familiar scent of her; it’s still seared into my memory from that single night we shared. Cinnamon sweetness lulls me into a lustful state as I make quick work of the apron. She gasps in surprise when I pull the ties a little too tight and secure them in a bow at her lower back. Unable to resist, I let my fingers linger on her hips, drawing small circles as I remember the softness of her body beneath me.

She pulls away sharply and whips around to face me, something broken in her brown eyes. “Please don’t.” There’s a note of fear in her words that raises the hairs along my neck in warning. I know a trauma response when I see one.

I take a step back, providing her the space she obviously needs. “Don’t what?” I ask, trying to gauge exactly what set her off so I can be more careful in the future.

Her cheeks flush with embarrassment, but she meets my eyes when she answers, “Don’t touch me.”

My brows wrinkle in confusion. She may not recognize me from Halloween, but I have more than fuckingtouchedher, and she never once complained or shied away like she’s doing right now. So what’s different now? “Can I ask why?” I press, still keeping myself at a distance.

“Just—don’t.”

Her evasion makes me bristle. It seems she doesn’t think I deserve the truth. And I promised myself many years ago that I would never allow a liar into my kitchen again. “If we’re going to be working together in a crowded kitchen during dinner rush, Ithink you’ll find it’s incredibly hard to avoid touching each other in some capacity. So I need to knowwhyif I’m going to consider making a very serious concession for my new pastry chef.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I feel like a manipulative bastard. I’m forcing her to be vulnerable by dangling the pastry position in front of her. And judging from the pained twist of her brows, vulnerability is something she avoids at all costs.

She swallows a few times before looking up at me, her dark eyes hard as stainless steel. “Because a younger version of myself was taught that soft touch was the start of something far worse, and I’ve hated it ever since.”

“Soft touch?” I repeat, turning over all the ways her vague explanation masks something terrible and traumatic. The thought has me ready to sharpen my favorite knife and introduce it to whoever laid their filthy fucking hands on my angel. Considering my knife reminds me of everything she allowed me to do with it. She never cowered or pulled away from me that night.

Before I can stop myself, I ask, “What about harsh touch?”

There’s a flash of desire in her gaze that mimics the way she looked up at me when I forced her to her knees—it’s heady and rich, and I want nothing more than to get drunk off the sweetness of it. But then the fire fades into something soft and submissive. Something she must assume I want, though that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“I don’t think you’ll ever know me well enough for that answer.”

Oh, but I already do.

No wonder Halloween night didn’t trigger her. There was nothing soft about the way I treated her. And she loved every minute. Webothfucking did.

Chapter Seven

GREYSON

My body is wracked with equal parts rage, arousal, and goddamn irritation, and I don’t know which to indulge first. All I know is that my blood is pounding, my cock is hard as hell, and I suddenly have a very rare craving for something sweet and spicy. I can only hope my new pastry chef is prepared to indulge one of my appetites if not the other.

Following our awkward encounter in the kitchen, Flores went right to work on her dish with pure determination in the strong set of her features. I don’t usually watch the auditions of new chefs in person. I let them prepare what they’ve come to cook and fuck off to my office to watch them from the kitchen cameras while I work on the menu for the following week. But with her, I couldn’t tear my eyes away if I tried.

I pull one of the chairs from the dining room and center it in the middle of the kitchen to watch her work. My eyes are fixed on the way her full hips sway with a graceful sort of rhythm to the melody of sugar bubbling, fire blazing, and utensils clattering as she dances her way through the kitchen. I’ve never seensomeone so at ease and in tune with the new surroundings of an unfamiliar workplace. Her natural instincts serve her well as she dominates the empty kitchen, finding everything she needs without needing to ask for assistance or amble around.

She’s in no rush, her pace controlled and steady in spite of the time limit. My personal vendetta aside, she’s exactly the sort of level-headed presence I would feel comfortable leaving in command of my kitchen. As it is, I plan on reminding her that she’ll never be in control as long as she’s under my rule. “Ten minutes, chef,” I call, hoping to startle her. I’m dying to catch a small glimpse of fear in her eyes.