Page 54 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

ANGéLICA

T here’s no going back now. Grey knows everything.

All the deep, dark secrets I’ve never told anyone.

And he doesn’t give a fuck about what I’ve done.

His perverse sense of justice even commends that sort of violence.

I’ve spent nearly ten years carrying around the shame of what happened.

The grief and the loss and the guilt. But in one night, Grey has healed me more than I ever thought was possible.

I’m pretty sure we both committed to forever last night, and I’ve never been so happy to be intertwined with someone until death.

There’s enough morbidity to that romantic sentiment that I don’t feel the need to cringe away.

Saying you’re stuck with me till you die is easier than saying I love you .

Although the sadistic bastard managed to force both confessions out of me yesterday. His little torture session seemed to have its desired effect, and I can’t even rouse the will to be mad about it.

We’re back to our normal routines now, tackling dinner service at Grey’s like nothing filthy is happening after hours.

He and I act professional in the kitchen, stealing small touches when no one is looking.

We’re careful for now, but eventually people will start to catch on.

And we’ll need to be prepared for it to rain hell when they do.

Grey is out of the kitchen today, meeting with a local supplier to see if they would be a good fit for us. He was misguided enough to leave me in charge of the kitchen again. It’s unorthodox, but everything he does seems crafted to break some set of established rules or hierarchy.

Thankfully, everything has gone well today. The other chefs are more willing to follow my lead with Henley out of the way. And I think they know that, unlike him, I’m willing to put in just as much effort as they are.

We’re an hour away from dinner, and I think we might actually be able to pull it off this time without setting any major fires. Grey should be back soon to take the helm before plates start going out, but I’m proud of what my team and I have been able to accomplish in his absence.

In this moment, I’ve never felt more like a real chef , and I have a sneaking suspicion that Grey intentionally left to give me a chance to find my footing on my own. I’ll have to think up a special way to thank him for it after we close tonight.

The dining room doors swing open, a beautiful blonde sweeping into the kitchen with a young boy at her side.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re not allowed in the kitchens,” I tell her with a sigh, used to diners wandering into the kitchen looking for the bathrooms. I told Grey he should make the sign more obvious, but he didn’t want something visible and tacky ruining his decor. It was one of our first fights.

“Grey should be expecting me,” she answers with a bright, chilling smile curling at the corners of her red lips.

I don’t like the way she looks at me as though I’m barely fit to be scrubbing dishes in this kitchen. I don’t like the way she’s painted in red from her blood-colored nails down to her Louboutin heels. And I really don’t fucking like the way she calls him Grey .

“Chef Greyson isn’t here,” I retort to remind her of her fucking place. “And he would have told me if he had an appointment.”

“Oh, I’m sure there are a great many things he hasn’t told you.” Her words drip with venom, amplified by a haughty French accent that reminds me of Collette. And like my former work rival—may she rest in peace—this puta seems to be begging for a bitchslap.

“Regardless,” I grit out, “chef isn’t here.”

“Oh that’s fine. I can wait for him at my table. You can send me a bottle of red to keep me from getting too bored. Make sure it’s French .”

She speaks to the boy beside her, but I’m not fluent enough to understand what she’s saying.

I take a moment to study the boy. He looks nothing like his fair mother—his hair, brows, and lashes are nearly black rather than blonde.

While she prattles on loudly, he’s all shy quietness with his eyes fixed on the floor.

His bright blue eyes carry an ember of the fire I’m used to seeing in a different set of crystalline eyes.

Fuck . The realization smacks me in the face with a violence that takes my breath away.

I can’t believe he would keep something like this from me, after everything I’ve shared with him.

Such a goddamn important part of his life.

I look at the woman again, hating that Grey had that sort of intimacy with her.

I have no right to be jealous of his past relationships, but it’s a stab to the heart anyway.

Especially because I never fucking knew about her until this moment.

I need her to say it. I need to know. I’ll drive myself crazy until I do.

“His son can wait for him here,” she announces, turning away from the boy who suddenly looks very uncomfortable and shoving him forward.

I give the boy a condoling smile that screams I’m sorry your mom is a bitch before glaring at the French blonde. “This is a restaurant. We aren’t babysitters.”

She looks at me smugly. “Then maybe his father should have shown up when he was supposed to. He’s kept me waiting long enough already.” With a couple hasty last words to her son, she leaves him standing in the middle of the kitchen and glides into the dining room like she owns the fucking place.

“Guess we are babysitters,” I mutter to myself, trying to decide what to do with a boy who’s about nine or ten while we wait for his father to show up and clean up his own damn mess.

Brushing my dirty hands on my apron, I walk up to the small kid who looks so out of place in this big kitchen. “Sorry, my French isn’t very good. I’m Angélica. What’s your name? Comment t’appelles-tu ?”

“Tobias,” he answers quietly.

“And your mother? Le nom de ta maman ?”

“Aurélie Dupont.”

For some reason, hearing her name makes me hate her even more. “Are you hungry? Affamé ?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, considering we’re in the middle of prepping dinner. And comfort food is always a language I’ve been fluent in.

“ Oui .” His eyes light up when he looks around the kitchen, studying every detail with a singular fascination that resembles someone else I know.

“What would you like?” I ask, running kid-friendly options through my head. Our gourmet dishes for tonight aren’t likely to impress a nine-year-old. “ Que veux-tu —I’m sorry, my French is really terrible.”

“It is okay,” he replies, the words heavily-accented but far better than my attempt. “I can also speak English. Maman wanted me to learn. I have an English tutor back home. She says I need to practice more.”

“Your English is great,” I offer with a smile. “I’m very impressed. I had to learn it when I was younger too, but you sound much better than I did at your age.”

I catch Liam’s attention. “Hey, can you handle the kitchen for a bit?” I nod toward Grey’s son in explanation.

“No problem, chef,” Liam answers, shooting a questioning look at the kid.

“Thanks.” I’ll fill him in on the drama later. “Let’s get you something to eat,” I call to Tobias, leading him in the direction of the pantry.

“Did you not grow up here?” he asks while walking beside me.

“Not at first, no. I grew up in Colombia.” I grab masarepa, some queso fresco, and butter before eying what else we have in stock today. “Anything you don’t like?”

“Spinach,” he answers with a disgusted scrunch of his nose.

“Fair enough,” I laugh. I snatch a handful of tomatoes and hold them up. “How do we feel about these?”

“I like them if they’re cooked. And seasoned.”

“You’ll love this then.” I gather the rest of the ingredients for arepas con hogao—I never saw a kid turn it down where I lived. “Come on. You can help me prep.”

“What do you think?” I ask Tobias after he takes his first bite of the arepas we made together. I’m nervous like I’ve just put my dish in front of a world-renowned culinary critic. God knows the brutal honesty of a kid can be even more scathing than the worst critics.

“It is delicious,” he answers with a wide grin on his face before taking another large bite. It reminds me of Grey, always so stoic until he has good food in his mouth. It makes me appreciate his obvious enjoyment even more.

“Good, now try it with some tomato on top.” I scoop some of the hogao on my own arepa and fold it over like a taco before digging in. I hum at the nostalgic warmth of flavors—it tastes just like home. “Like it?”

He finishes the entire arepa before answering, “It is very good. Could use some more spice though.”

I laugh at him catching me skimping on the cumin.

I thought he might not like the taste, so I halved my usual amount.

Apparently, he has a palate like his father.

“Oh really, little chef?” I tease, ruffling his dark hair.

“I’ll take that into account next time. I might need your help making it, though. ”

“I could help.” There’s a bright sort of excitement in his voice. “Maman said we may move here.”

I try not to cringe away from the idea of one of Grey’s past lovers becoming a permanent fixture in his life, but the boy deserves to know his father.

I think they’d both be better for it. “That would be nice,” I reply, the warmth in my tone genuine.

“Do you think your maman would let you spend more time at the restaurant?”

“I do not know. She is a chef too, but she has never let me in the kitchen before.”

“Your mother’s never let you in the kitchen?” I gasp, the idea of keeping a kid out of a kitchen sounding cruel and unfair. I grew up in the kitchen, and I don’t know where I’d be without that connection to food.

He looks down at the floor. “She says the kitchen is too dangerous. ”

Well, I won’t argue with her there. “This kitchen is very safe. I promise. Besides, I could use a sous chef, and you’re the perfect candidate.”

“Really?” he asks, his blue eyes shining with happiness.

“Really,” I promise.

In a flash, his arms are wrapped around me, hugging me tight.

There’s a sort of awkwardness in his touch that makes me think he doesn’t do this very often.

Or maybe he’s never been taught how at all.

After the smallest moment of hesitation, I hug him back, squeezing him hard enough that he knows I feel the same as he does.

We might not share a familial connection, but I’d love to participate in Tobias’ life in whatever way he wants. After almost a decade on my own, I’d be happy to start building a little makeshift family of my own.

“What the fuck?”

I look up to see Greyson staring at us with a mixture of horror and confusion in his eyes. Did I cross a line with his son without meaning to? With a tight smile, I disentangle myself from Tobias’ arms and glare up at Grey.

“Your son came for an unexpected visit today.” I’m not bothered that he has a kid, but I’m furious that I didn’t hear about it before fucking Aurélie Dupont threw him into my kitchen to fend for himself.

Now I just want to smack both of them for being terrible parents and letting their son get caught in the middle.

“Flores, wait for me in my office,” he commands without indulging my obvious irritation at all.

Flores . He has some fucking nerve. “No.”

“Don’t push me right now, Angélica,” he sighs. “Let me take care of Tobias. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

“And we’ll talk?” I ask, glancing over at his son. “I need you to give me a little more than orders and vague excuses right now. ”

He holds my gaze. “I promise I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Fine,” I concede after a long, uncomfortable pause. I turn to Tobias, hating the disappointment in his blue eyes. “I enjoyed cooking with you today. Come visit whenever you want—the kitchen is always open, little chef.”

“Thank you, Angélica,” he answers, pronouncing my name far better than Greyson did the first time.

“You sure he’s your kid?” I ask with a laugh, hoping to cut through the current tension. “Already fluent in multiple languages, so he must get it from his mother.” Grey just stares at me, his jaw clenched tight. Sore subject, then.

“I’ll see you around, Tobias. Tell your mother she should let you in the kitchen. You’re a natural.”

“Office,” Grey grits out like he’s slowly losing his patience.

“Goodbye, Angélica,” Tobias calls as I start to stomp toward Grey’s office as commanded.

“You know what, Tobias?” I turn around, shocked at the sight of the two of them side by side. He’s like a mini shadow of his father. “You can call me Angel.”