Page 11 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Chapter Nine

ANGéLICA

I haven’t been in Greyson’s office since the day we met.

And I’m even more terrified now than I was then.

My burned hand hurts like hell in spite of the ointment I put on it, and it feels like I’ve been waiting hours.

The damn clock on the wall reminds me it’s only been thirty five minutes.

If he was going to wait until after dinner finished for the evening to yell at me, he could have at least let me help prep the dessert course I created.

But no, how very typical that part of Greyson’s punishment for my fuck-up is sitting in an empty office while Henley plates my dessert and takes all the credit.

I’d be furious if I wasn’t so goddamn tired.

I must fall asleep at some point because my head is resting on Greyson’s desk when he finally storms into the room.

I rub my bleary eyes and try to look like I didn’t just take a nap on his desk.

I can tell from the stern set of his jaw that he’s still livid about my earlier mistake, and I definitely don’t want to give him more ammunition when he’s in one of his usual bad moods.

“Sleeping on the job, Flores?” he seethes, ripping off his dirty, black apron and throwing it across the desk.

Like always, he’s wearing full black, his shirt buttoned all the way up to his neck.

I’ve never seen what he looks like underneath.

He keeps himself so covered, I’ve wondered if maybe he’s scarred below all that black.

Not that scars would make him any less beautiful.

“Maybe if you didn’t stay up all night partying, you wouldn’t be throwing trays of pastry on my kitchen floor,” he adds, the judgment in his voice thick and oppressive as he throws himself into the chair across from me.

Indignation crackles under my skin at the false accusation.

“I don’t party ,” I hiss, leaning over his desk so that I can glare at him.

“This job barely allows me enough time to sleep and eat, so how the fuck would I make time to go out and social? Ni siquiera he follado en seis meses ,” I add under my breath, my words bitter as burned garlic.

“And what exactly does that mean?” He has that annoyed crease between his brows that always appears when I use Spanish around him. Apparently he doesn’t like being in the dark, but speaking full French in the kitchen is entirely acceptable. Men are such champions of double standards.

“Why don’t you add another language to your vast collection and figure it out?” I answer with a sweet smile.

“ Angélica ,” he warns, and my skin prickles as a warm rush of heat washes over me. He never uses my first name, not since he butchered it when we first met. And it’s clear from the way he says it now that he’s been practicing. The thought twists at my insides in the strangest way.

“Yes, Gavin ?” I retort with a forced note of spite. At this point, I’m fighting to keep the anger in my chest burning while I fixate on the way his lips wrapped around my name.

“Don’t call me that.” At first I think he’s joking, but the disdain in his eyes is as serious as the rigid clench of his jaw.

Even though everything about his demeanor tells me to stand down, I can’t help but ask, “Why? ”

He glares at me, his blue eyes darker than usual. “Because that name was forced on me by a father I hated. That was his talent, you see, forcing things on people and watching them struggle and suffer to take it. A goddamn sadist to his fucking core.”

I’m reeling from the blunt, horrifying honesty that I never expected.

Greyson doesn’t share intimate details with anyone.

I can’t imagine why he would dare share them with me.

And the way he said it—so detached and emotionless—like what he experienced only made him stronger.

I know from my own past that strength can be the best mask for unhealed wounds.

And part of me wonders if maybe the mask worked so well that even he doesn’t realize how broken he is beneath it.

“Of all the things he did—that name is more easily erased than others,” Greyson finishes with a tired sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I reply, the response so empty compared to what he must have endured.

I’ve spent every day of the last six months despising this man, but now I’m not so certain he deserves my hatred. He’s been a victim of bad family and bad luck just as much as I have.

Greyson must misread the understanding in my eyes for pity, and his brief moment of vulnerability vanishes as iron takes its place.

“You should be fucking sorry,” he bites back, the words as sharp as a blade.

“But not for shit in the past that can’t be changed.

You should be on your fucking knees for ruining the dessert course tonight. ”

I take it back; my hatred is still very much alive. “But I fixed it,” I remind him, matching his arrogance with plenty of my own.

“Yes, that’s the reason why you’re sitting in my office instead of out on your ass with no job to go to tomorrow.”

“Fine, I apologize for fucking up. What’s my penance this time? I already come in an hour early every morning. Should I stay an hour later every night, too? Do the dishes? Scrub the floors? What would satisfy your disappointment in me this time, chef?”

His blue eyes flicker with malicious glee, and I think I might have just brought more suffering upon myself than I already earned. Mierda .

“Some excellent ideas, Flores.” He’s gone back to my surname, and I can’t imagine that’s a good sign.

“I rather enjoy the image of you scrubbing dirty floors and dishes all night to atone for your carelessness, but I don’t think you could keep yourself awake if you tried.

” His expression turns thoughtful as he studies me, no doubt taking note of the dark circles under my reddened eyes.

I know I looked like hell when I came into the kitchen fourteen hours ago; I just didn’t think he would take the time to notice.

I shift in my seat, suddenly insecure about the fact that I never put on anything other than mascara and lip balm.

People tell me the freckles sprinkled over my nose and cheeks make me look even younger than I already do, but I’ve always liked them enough not to cover them with makeup.

I twist my long hair into a messy bun every morning, but too many hours working in the hot kitchen have sent stray curls falling into my eyes and down my neck.

He’s probably wondering why he even allows a mess like me into his pristine kitchen. I just pray I haven’t given him a good enough reason to let me go yet.

“If you weren’t out partying, why do you look like you haven’t slept all week?”

I can’t help but wince at his words and the obvious disapproval layered beneath them.

“Because I haven’t slept all week,” I answer honestly.

He stares at me in silence, waiting for me to elaborate.

Fighting back embarrassment, I continue, “My key to the apartment went missing last week, my roommate refused to let me make a copy of hers, and the apartment management is a fucking joke. So I have to rely on Amber to let me in every night. Most days, I sit by the door for about an hour before she lets me in. Last night it was three hours.”

“Sounds like a bitch.” He says it lightly, but his eyes hold more fury than I’ve ever seen directed at me. “You should move.”

“I won’t disagree with you, but I also can’t afford to live anywhere else right now. I’ll make it work.”

“Coming into my kitchen exhausted and throwing things on the floor isn’t making it work, Flores.”

He’s right, but that doesn’t make the reprimand hurt any less.

I’m used to perfection in the kitchen—there aren’t any other options as far as I’m concerned.

But even I can admit that my personal life is bleeding into my professional life and fucking everything up.

“Sorry to disappoint, chef,” I snap, but my frustration is pointed more at myself than anyone.

“Watch the fucking attitude,” he growls, and the disapproval on his face is enough to make me shrink back in my chair.

“You should have called out this morning. I don’t need a burnt-out chef sleepwalking through dinner prep.

Handling knives and fire and hot ovens while barely conscious is a goddamn hazard to every chef in my kitchen.

You put my restaurant and my employees at risk, not to mention your own health and safety.

Tonight could have been far fucking worse than dessert on the floor and Henley in bitch mode. ”

I can’t help the giggle that bursts through my repentant seriousness when Greyson makes such an accurate description of Henley. The stubby, middle-aged chef is an absolute drama queen, and I’m glad I’m not the only one who noticed.

“Something amusing, chef?” His words are sharp like the pointed tip of a metal skewer. And he looks about ready to run one through me .

“No, chef.” A yawn cuts off the last of my response, and I cover my mouth in embarrassment.

“What am I going to do with you, Flores?” He sounds tired himself, his expression softening as he allows the stress of a chaotic night to take over.

“Let me off with a warning so we can both go home and rest?”

He glares at me. “Not fucking likely. Henley will throw a fit when he finds out I didn’t fire you for tonight’s fiasco.”

“So why didn’t you?”

There’s a flicker in his crystalline eyes—a flare of passion or fury or something I’ve never experienced before. He tempers the heat of it before answering, “I think you have talent. Raw talent that needs a great deal of discipline, but you could be great if you allowed yourself to be.”

I don’t know how to respond to such praise, even when it’s layered with his usual criticism. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say he believes in me. So why does he work me harder than anyone else in his kitchen?

“And speaking of discipline, yours is far overdue for endangering the reputation of my restaurant with your carelessness. We could have lost a star if someone hated that dessert of yours tonight and splattered a scathing review across every culinary publication.”

“Well, did they hate it?” I ask, unable to keep a streak of arrogance from my voice. I’m self-confident enough to know that my flavors are on-point, even if Henley did fuck up the presentation while I was forced to sit in Greyson’s office for an hour.

“They raved about it.” A faint smile tugs at the right corner of his mouth before falling into a grim line once more. “But that’s beside the point.”

“Of course it is.” I roll my eyes. “So what will it be, chef? I expect you instructed everyone to leave the kitchen wrecked for me to clean up.” I’m dying inside at the thought of spending half the night cleaning when all I want to do is curl up in this chair and fall asleep right now.

He studies me for a long moment, his expression conflicted. “Since you impressed our patrons tonight, I’m willing to give you a choice. You can stay here for the next few hours and clean the kitchen until it’s spotless. Or,” he pauses, letting the anticipation build.

My eyes are fixed on the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows hard.

I feel my own throat close up with nervous anticipation.

And I have a sudden, prickling sensation that whatever the or is might wreck the imaginary boundary that’s always kept us separate despite the bursts of heat I’ve felt every now and then when he and I share the kitchen.

In spite of his usual cruelty, I’m almost certain he’s felt them too.

“Or?” I ask boldly, raising my eyes to find his.

“Or I can bend you over my desk and give you the spanking you’ve needed for a very, very long time.”