Page 161 of The Christmas Trap

"I came in to show you something."

"You did?" Had not been expecting him to say that.

He pulls out his phone, swipes it, then turns it around and shows it to me. For a few seconds, I don’t understand what I’m seeing, then my jaw drops. "Is that… Is that—" I’m unable to complete my sentence.

"It is."

"But how—?" I look on in horror as our earlier interaction in the kitchen plays out on his phone. "Who uploaded it to social media?" Then I remember the person filming us. "Was it Tilda, the junior chef?"

"Whoever did it is gone."

Right. Okay. I can’t take my gaze off the video clip which has amassed… "A million views?" I gasp.

"And counting." He navigates out of the screen, sliding the phone back into the pocket of his pants.

"That’s… That’s terrible." I swallow.

"Or an opportunity."

"I look like I’m having a meltdown, and the comments… I haven’t seen them yet, but I can guess what they’re saying."

"They haven’t been complimentary…completely," he admits.

"I bet none of them criticize you," I say bitterly. Typically, it’s the woman who gets the short end of the shrift in these cases.

"There might have been a few which marveled that the normally bad-mouthed chef seemed to be stunned into silence."

"That doesn’t seem like a compliment to me, somehow."

"They seemed to think it was a lovers' quarrel."

"What?" My jaw drops. In fact, my knees give way, and I sit back down on my upturned carton heavily. "That’s it, I’m definitely not leaving this…this…walk-in fridge." I look around the blue-light lit space. "I guess there’s enough here to eat for me to survive. Not the fresh meat, but I could eat the tomatoes and the edible fruits and vegetables. And I can manage with this set of clothes and?—"

"Stop," he commands.

I firm my lips, feeling the words bubble up my throat, but not giving voice to them. Instead, I content myself with scowling at him. "Easy for you to say. I bet you’re not the one being painted the villain of the piece.”

"On the contrary. My phone has been ringing off the hook. The investors of my restaurant are very upset."

Oh no. "That doesn’t sound good."

"It isn’t." His voice grows hard.

A prickling of discomfort crawls up my spine. I shove it aside. "Bet you can convince them otherwise."

"I did."

"Okay?" That prickle of discomfort turns into a volley of agitation. I squirm around on my carton, trying to find a better position. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Everything." He drums his fingers on his thigh. "I assume you want to keep your job?"

I straighten.No way. He’s going to let me keep my job?After what I said? And after having insulted him in front of the staff? Not to mention, the negative PR from that little viral video clip? "You’re kidding, right?" I snort.

He stays unmoved. His expression turns to stone.

"Guess not." I hunch my shoulders. This entire conversation isgetting very weird. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something behind these questions he’s asking me.

"I convinced my investors there was a reason behind that clip. A very good reason, which convinced them not to pull their investments, and also to put more money into a PR campaign in the same vein."