Page 1 of Bossy Wicked Prince

1

CAT

Freezing my tits off in the walk-in refrigerator isnothow I intended to spend the end of my shift, but here we are. I shuffle back and forth, rubbing my arms to get some feeling back into my fingertips and toes.

“I love the cold,” I mutter to myself through chattering teeth. “Sub-zero temperatures are t-totally my jam. I could stay here for hours.”

I glance down at my fingers, which are in the process of going from a pale white to a concerning reddish purple. Apparently, verbal affirmations are no match for an industrial walk-in fridge. I’m guessing I only have a few minutes before my hide-out raises the stakes from uncomfortable to actually dangerous.

There’s no window in the door, so I’ve got no way to see whether can’t-take-a-hint-Harry is still skulking around out there.

When I got this job, I learned that “The Bear” lied to me. I thought chefs were supposed to be assholes of the sexy, brooding variety with sculpted biceps peeking out from under their perfectly fitted white tees.

But chefs are mostly just assholes. Full stop. We’ve got a few of them rotating shifts at the Terrace Steakhouse, and I haven’t met an exception to the rule yet.

Even so, out of all my coworkers, Harry takes the fucking cake. He’s been hounding me to go out with him since my first day here. He seems to think that because he’s a chef and I’m ‘just’ a waitress, I’m supposed to be flattered.

I brushed him off the first few times he asked with a blanket ‘I don’t date coworkers’before awkwardly changing the subject. Unfortunately, ‘I don’t date coworkers’translates to ‘ask me again, and again, and again’in Chef Harry speak because it’s become a daily trend. At first, it was just awkward. But then last night, he was waiting for me right outside the staff entrance. He took me by the arm and pulled me toward the back loading dock. When I tried to protest, he flippantly told me to calm down.

“Oh come on,I just want to show you something, Cat,”he said, making me feel like I was overreacting when I absolutely wasn’t.

I know I should have gone all Kill Bill on him, but when it came down to it, I just…froze. I couldn’t make myself move. It’s like I lost all bodily autonomy.

I don’t know what he might have tried if Sandy, one of the other waitresses, hadn’t walked out when she did. So yeah, I’m trying to avoid Harry. I’ve had a long enough night already. We were already a server down, and the ticket system in the kitchen malfunctioned, leaving us scrambling to get orders in. Worst of all, my biggest table didn’t tip me, even after I painstakingly split their check onto eight different cards.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. It’s been a little over fifteen minutes, which I’m praying is long enough for Harry to get bored and head to the nightclub downstairs. It’s always packed full of pretty girls, and if Harry drops that he’s a chef at Terrace, I’m sure it’ll be easy pickings.

I ease open the door and peek behind it. To my relief, the supply room outside is totally empty. The kitchen beyond is also silent; the sous-chefs must have finished their prep and gone home for the night. With any luck, Harry took off out with them. All I have to do is stop by the staff room to get my purse and I’m home free.

The second I leave the fridge, my phone starts vibrating so hard it could give my ancient Rabbit a run for its money. I pull it from my apron pocket and groan out loud. Three missed calls and ten text messages, all from the same person. Steve, my landlord.

Steve

Please call me ASAP.

The rent is late AGAIN.

This can’t happen every month, Caitlin.

I can’t even blame Steve for hounding me. I know I’ve been late on my rent for the last few months, and even though my apartment hasn’t been renovated in a few decades, housing in Toronto can still be pretty competitive. I know if Steve kicks me out, he could find someone to take over the lease in under a week. Someone who never misses a payment. He probably knows that, too.

I quickly do the mental math. I barely got $100 in tips tonight after I tipped out the bussers and the hosts. But tomorrow’s Friday, and the last day of the month, which always makes people open their wallets wider. If I get my usual tips over the weekend and hold off on my donation to the shelter until next week, I should have just enough for my rent check to clear.

Sighing, I start composing a text to Steve that’s equal parts apologetic and reassuring.

Cat

So sorry! I’ll have the money for you by Monday. Thanks for understanding.

I’m deciding whether to add in some heart hands or a smiley emoji when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

Shit.

Harry’s leaning on the door to the staff room, taking an inhale from his vape.

Clenching my teeth, I spin on my heel and hightail it in the opposite direction.

He didn’t see me.