Page 23 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)
I ignore the way his words make my insides tingle. “So what are you offering me tomorrow that’s worth giving up a day spent in bed doing nothing?”
“A day spent in my bed getting fucked until your throat is raw from screaming my name? ”
“Jesus, Greyson, you can’t just say things like that,” I gasp even as I feel my core slicken at the filthy thought.
“Why not? You afraid someone will hear what a greedy little whore you are for your boss?”
“If people find out about us, the only thing you’ll be fucking in your bed is your hand,” I bite, furtively glancing around to make sure that no one is within earshot.
He bends down low, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I guess I’ll just have to watch that video of you fucking my desk and moaning my name to keep me and my hand company then,” he whispers, his voice so low that his chest rumbles against me.
“You wouldn’t.”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. “I already have, angel.”
I don’t have to guess whether he’s bluffing or not. The truth is painted in that smug little smirk of his. Merida , I’ll never be able to live down that moment of weakness with the desk. And it appears he’s been reliving it regularly.
“Sunday,” I snap. “What are we doing? And if you say anything even remotely suggestive, I’m not letting you near my pussy ever again.”
“Dinner,” he answers, his tone serious.
The sudden change in his demeanor throws me. “Dinner?” We already do dinner together every fucking day of the week except for Sunday.
“Dinner at my place,” he clarifies. “I’ll come pick you up from your apartment at six. So you can still lie in bed and do nothing for half a day.”
I stare at him, trying to decide if this is a bad idea or a terrible one. “Just dinner?”
“If that’s what you want, then yes, just dinner.”
“And you’ll tell me? About the other thing?”
The small tic in his jaw is the only sign that he’s worried about what I might ask him. “I’ll tell you everything. ”
“Okay,” I agree with a hesitant nod of my head. “Dinner.”
“Don’t look so scared, angel,” he teases as we come up to the kitchen and hear everyone shouting to get orders out in time. “I promise you’ll have fun.”
Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.
“Fuck, no wonder you were hiding out,” Greyson hisses when he enters the kitchen and witnesses the carnage first hand. “Who the hell is running things here?” he shouts into the madness. I think it’s pretty clear that Greyson’s orders for me to be in charge were not met in the slightest.
“I am, chef,” Henley answers, eager to take credit for this shit show. “I’ve handled everything today.”
“Perfect,” Greyson replies with a cruel smile. “So you’re the one I should blame for the absolute train wreck occurring in the dining room right now? And the utter lack of discipline in my kitchen?”
“Well, I uh—Flores was supposed to be in charge,” Henley stammers, trying to regain the high ground by throwing me under him to take the fall. Typical asshole.
“I know she was, Henley. I’m the one who put her there.
And if you had followed my orders, dinner would have gone smoothly today.
Flores,” he points to me, “knows how to lead because she knows how to fucking serve too. She can make a greater culinary impact in complete silence than you can shouting about your authority and skill in the hopes that the ringing in our ears will prevent us from noticing how goddamn insignificant you are.”
“That girl came from nowhere. She is nothing,” Henley sputters, his face turning red.
“ That girl just took your job. Turn in your apron, chef. You’re finished here.”
Suddenly, the whole kitchen is gaping in our direction, the tension thick and the air silent. I look up at Greyson in shock. Certainly he doesn’t mean what I think he means ?
“You can’t do this,” Henley protests, his eyes scanning the gathering crowd for someone who will take his side. Unlike this morning, he finds himself completely alone. This kitchen is vicious, and as soon as the others smell the blood in the water, loyalty means nothing.
“It’s my kitchen,” Greyson snarls. “I can do whatever the fuck I want. Now take off your goddamn apron.”
Huffing in outrage, Henley rips off his apron and throws it at Greyson’s feet. “You’ll regret choosing her,” he warns, wagging his thick finger in my direction.
“Oh I don’t think so,” Greyson retorts with a smile, even as his voice drips with venom. “You see, people who come from nothing have more potential for greatness than an entitled little twat like you could ever even dream of.”
With a sharp string of expletives, Henley stomps out of the room, a small round of scornful applause sending him on his way.
Greyson looks at me with a strange sort of pride in his eyes. “Congratulations, Flores. You’re Grey’s new pastry chef.”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was Greyson’s plan all along.
In all honesty, I wasn’t ready when I applied for this position six months ago.
But after suffering under Greyson’s impossibly high expectations and not so tender instruction for so long, I realize I’ve never been more confident in my ability to fucking kill it in this kitchen.