Raise the Heat: A Forbidden Office Romance (Beastly Bosses)

by Cassia Leo

  She appears taken aback by my dry delivery. “Okay… I guess I’ll just…get to work.”

  She’s almost disappeared into the corridor when I call out to her.

  “Alice?”

  She turns around and leans forward to peek into my office. “Yes?”

  I hesitate for a moment, knowing my only motivation for what I’m about to do is my desire to be near her. There are other—possibly more qualified—people in this building from whom I can ask assistance.

  But there’s no one else I’d rather work with.

  And that’s definitely not an admission I should be making to myself.

  “I’d like your opinion on something,” I say before I can change my mind.

  Her full lips curve into a charming smile. “Of course,” she replies, as she enters the office again. “What can I do to—for you? Sorry.”

  Her slip of the tongue puts me at ease as it reminds me of the flickers of desire I’ve seen in her eyes. I saw it when we first met in the kitchen during her interview, though I wondered if that was because she thought I was Edward. But I felt the sparks again when she came to inform me she had accepted the hostess position. I recognized the hunger in her sable eyes when I lost my patience with her yesterday.

  But it was unmistakable when I fed her last night. Her mouth enjoyed the food, but her body was craving so much more.

  “I need to come up with an alternative to the bread course I shared with you last night,” I say, ignoring the vibration of my mobile in my pocket.

  Edward always has the worst timing.

  “But why? It was perfect,” Alice blurts out.

  Her cheeks blush as she seems embarrassed by her inability to conceal her gushing praise.

  I purposely ignore the compliment, immediately launching into the problem at hand. “We’re having equipment issues and may not be able to execute the bread course we’d initially planned.”

  Execute? I’m speaking as if we’re planning a military mission.

  She cocks an eyebrow, though I can’t decide if the emotion behind her eyes is skepticism or triumph. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but you seem a bit tense.”

  “I seem a bit tense?”

  “Well, if you’re asking for my help with the issue, it can’t be that bad.”

  “Please enlighten me, love. Should I be unfazed about having to change the menu six days before opening?” I ask as I glance down at her jeans. “And the fact my hostess can’t be bothered to follow the dress code. Do I really need to have this conversation with you?”

  She purses her plump lips, and the glare of the ceiling lights glints off her lip gloss. “The jeans you gave me were too small on my a—on my bottom. If they had fit me properly, I’d be wearing them.”

  I resist the urge to ask her to turn around so I can get a better look at her gorgeous arse. Instead, I beckon her to join me on my side of the desk. “Come.”

  She eyes me warily. “I don’t know what Edward told you, but I’m not a casting couch kind of girl.”

  I roll my eyes. “The furthest thing from my mind, love.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to show you the program I’m using.”

  She slowly rounds the desk and stands behind my chair, cautiously putting a few feet of distance between us. “Why do you want to show me this?”

  “You want to be my sous chef eventually, don’t you?”

  Glancing back at her over my shoulder, I spot a reluctant grin spreading across her rosy cheeks. This seems to loosen her up, and she steps closer to get a better look at the computer screen.

  I wish my intentions were more altruistic. But I’m really just dying to get a whiff of the scent that enveloped me when I was near her last night. It reminded me of the first few notes that hit your nose when macerating raspberries with sugar and lime.

  Refreshingly fruity with a hint of sweet feminine musk.

  Alice framboise.

  I wouldn’t mind eating that.

  As she leans in closer, placing one hand on the back of my chair to steady herself, I get a whiff of her fragrance. I discreetly sniff the air as I keep my eyes focused on the screen in front of me, but it’s near impossible.

  The words on the screen blur together, and a pleasant warmth spreads from my chest to the tips of my fingers. I’m drunk on her scent.

  “Uh… Are you going to show me?” she says, rousing me from my intoxicated state, while also awakening something in the crotch of my jeans.

  “Of course,” I say, moving the cursor to the top of the screen. “The name of this software is—”

  Ollie walks in unannounced, interrupting our private lesson. “There’s only—” She sees Alice and stop mid-sentence. “I’m sorry. Should I come back later?”

  My disappointment must be obvious. “No, please come in.”

  Ollie glances at Alice again, and Alice takes this as a sign that she should put some more distance between us. I press my lips together to hide my annoyance.

  “There’s only one supplier that has the same model within a hundred-mile radius, but they’re in Poughkeepsie, and it’s a scratch-and-dent model. But that means it’s less than half the price of the new one.”

  “Great,” I reply, feeling my body flood with relief at the knowledge I won’t have to create a new tasting menu, and I can postpone this ill-conceived lesson with Alice for another more appropriate time.

  “Actually…” Ollie chimes in looking somewhat hesitant. “The guy won’t hold it for us. He said they don’t hold scratch-and-dent models unless you have an account with them, which we don’t.”

  I shrug, wondering why Ollie seems so worried about this. “So, what’s the problem? You have all the business information. Create an account.”

  Ollie shakes her head. “They don’t take scanned IDs. You would need to go to Poughkeepsie and open an account yourself, unless you want the account to be under someone else’s name.”

  I lean back in my chair, utterly deflated by this news.

  “Are you talking about Henry’s Restaurant Supply in Poughkeepsie?” Alice asks.

  Ollie’s eyes widen. “Yeah. Do you know them?”

  Alice nods. “Of course. I’ve known Hank for years. I don’t have an account with him, but I’m sure I can get him to hold whatever it is you need. You want me to give him a call?”

  Ollie lets out an enormous sigh of relief. “Oh, my God. Yes! Please. That would be amazing.”

  My chest fills with an emotion that can only be described as pride as Ollie and Alice huddle together, their attentions focused on Alice’s mobile phone as she makes a call using the speakerphone.

  A deep voice, with what sounds like—to my English ears—a thick New York accent, answers on the other end. “Henry’s. What can I do you for?”

  “Hank, it’s Alice Lopez. I—”

  “Alice! Hey, long time no see, sweetheart. How are things?”

  Ollie and I try not to appear too impatient as we wait for Alice and Hank to get through the niceties of a greeting between two seemingly long-lost friends. I also have to work to keep my creeping possessiveness at bay as I listen to the mildly flirtatious tone she uses to butter him up.

  Finally, after what seems like an hour but is probably closer to three minutes, Alice mentions Forked and the conversation Hank had with Ollie earlier.

  “Do you think you can hold the proofing cabinet for me for a few days? Just until we can get someone out there to pick it up?” she asks, and my insides roar with jealousy as puts on a girlish tone to play up the flirtatiousness.

  “I wish I could, sweetheart, but you know the policy. I only do holds on scratch-and-dents for customers with terms. But…” His voice trails off as he seems to consider something. “I guess, for you, I can hold it until closing tonight, but no later than that. And only if you’re the one who picks it up. Does that work for you?”

  Alice beams, the joy in her face matching my own excitement. “That’s perfect!” she says, then she turns to
me as she seems to remember I’m the one who has to pick up the cabinet if I also want to create an account. “Is that okay with you?”

  I nod and the hairs on my arms stand on end as I watch her hash out the particulars with Hank. Alice and I will have to make the long drive to Poughkeepsie together.

  “Thank you,” I say as she tucks her phone in her pocket.

  She smiles, looking uneasy with my gratitude. “Don’t thank me yet. You still need to fight traffic to get there before closing, which is in…”—she glances at the clock on the wall—“…three and a half hours. It will be tight with traffic, but we should make it in time.”

  “I can drive you guys,” Ollie offers enthusiastically. “I have an EZ-Pass for the parkway.”

  “No,” I interject, perhaps too abruptly. “I mean, you can’t. I need you to hold down the fort while I’m gone.”

  “Are you sure?” Ollie says. “Seems like you might not want to take that kind of risk today.”

  “I thought your check engine light came on yesterday,” I reply, blurting the first thought that comes to mind.

  Ollie appears confused for a moment, then, “Oh, yeah! I can’t believe I almost forgot about that.” She turns to Alice and lets out a brief snorting chuckle. “Imagine the three of us getting stuck upstate in my clunker.”

  “I’ve endured worse,” Alice says with a wry smile, and I can’t figure out if she’s referring to Edward or me. Or both of us.

  Regardless, the thought of riding in the rear seat of Ollie’s car while Ollie and Alice sit together up front, bonding over American things, makes me rather uncomfortable.

  I can already hear the conversation in my head.

  Does it feel dodgy driving on the right side of the road, Ethan?

  You’ve really never heard this song before?

  Why do they call it cookery school in the UK and culinary school in France?

  I also find myself feeling protective of Alice. I brought her into this situation. Whatever you want to call it—a career opportunity or a setup—she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. And I wouldn’t know her if it weren’t for my brother.

  Though, I still can’t quite figure out what happened between the two of them. I know what Edward told me and what he told the trade papers. But I can’t stop thinking about what Alice said yesterday.

  I may not have done my research on you, but clearly you have been woefully misinformed about me.

  Was there more to their breakup than I’ve gathered through my limited sources?

  The other reason I don’t want Ollie tagging along is not quite as noble. The thought of Alice becoming closer with Ollie than me awakens that primitive possessiveness inside me.

  It doesn’t help that Alice reminds me so much of Priya.

  I know this has colored my interactions with Alice thus far. I’ve found myself becoming more frustrated with her than the situation warrants. I can’t help it. She reminds me so much of Priya.

  And Priya’s betrayal.

  As my mind clambers for a reason not to make this trip with Alice alone, Cristian’s words echo in my mind.

  You can hire my daughter as a hostess, but don’t forget she’s a chef. And don’t forget to keep your hands where they belong—on the food. If you find yourself forgetting that, I may find myself making some recommendations about your funding. Are we clear?

  Crystal clear, Cristian.

  Unfortunately, I’m a man with very particular tastes, and Alice happens to be my favorite flavor.

  Chapter 7

  ALICE

  “I didn’t take you for a truck guy,” I say as Ethan opens the passenger door of an enormous Ford F-350 pickup parked in the underground garage across from the restaurant.

  “It belongs to the construction foreman,” he says, sounding slightly offended by my stereotyping of his vehicle preferences.

  “Tino? Why are we taking his—Oh, we’re taking this because the cabinet won’t fit in your pretty Lexus.”

  He rolls his eyes and pushes the door shut. I resist the urge to watch him through the rear window of the truck’s cab, but when he climbs into the driver’s seat I can’t help myself. He brings a waft of that Eau de Ethan scent into the truck with him, and my eyes become fixated on the muscles in his tattooed forearms as he pulls out of the parking garage.

  “What do your tattoos mean?” I ask, partly to break the silence and partly because I’m desperate to know what I’m getting into today.

  Is Ethan really different than Edward, or should I be on my guard?

  His face breaks into a handsome grin as he merges onto I-95. “That’s a wee bit personal, don’t you think?”

  “Just trying to get to know you a little,” I reply, unable to hide the defensiveness in my tone.

  “So, you want to get to know me?” he asks.

  I suppress a smile. “Isn’t that what strangers usually do when enclosed in a confined space for an extended period of time?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call us strangers.”

  “Are you purposely avoiding the question?”

  “About my tattoos? Nope. I simply don’t think they’re that interesting.”

  I turn slightly in my seat to face him. “You’re telling me this tattoo,” I say, pointing to the one on his right forearm, which seems to depict a piece of paper covered in squiggly writing, which has been set on fire by the flames of a red phoenix, “means nothing?”

  “I’m a fan of phoenixes,” he replies with a tone of finality.

  I shrug. “Okay, you can keep your secrets. But a word of advice: if you want to keep something a secret, you might not want to tattoo it on your forearm.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try to remember that next time.”

  “You’re an infuriating smart-ass, you know that?”

  He lets out a sexy guffaw. “Thank you. I pride myself on infuriating the beautiful women in my life.”

  I stare at him in silence for a moment, my heart racing as the word beautiful echoes in my mind. But I decide not to call attention to it. The word probably slipped out unintentionally.

  After a few minutes, the silence is broken by a car behind us blasting their horn.

  Ethan glances in the rear-view mirror, looking more than a bit confused. “What your problem? I’m driving the speed limit,” he says, looking to me beseechingly. “Aren’t I?”

  I try not to laugh as I glance at the digital speedometer and see he’s indeed driving the speed limit at almost exactly fifty-five miles per hour. “It’s not your speed. It’s the fact that you’re doing fifty-five in the fast lane. You’re driving on the wrong side of the road.”

  He lets out an exasperated sigh as he signals to change lanes. “How did I know you would say something about my driving on the wrong side of the road? Would you prefer to drive?”

  “I promise I’m not teasing you. And, no, I can’t drive.”

  He glances at me as he settles into the right lane, an expression of vague curiosity lighting up his dark eyes. “Are you one of those New Yorkers who’s never learned to drive?”

  “Yup,” I reply, hoping he can hear the tone of finality in my voice the way I heard it in his earlier.

  His smile widens. “So, you’ve lived in New York your entire life?”

  “Except for culinary school, yes.”

  His smile suddenly dims, and my stomach clenches as I begin to feel judged. “Oh, I didn’t know that,” he says.

  Despite the fact that he likely saw Le Cordon Bleu Paris listed under “Education” on my resume, I find it odd he doesn’t take this opportunity to ask me about culinary school. It seems like the logical continuation of the conversation.

  Not that I want him to ask about my education. That conversation might open up a can of worms I’m not ready to deal with, considering I have no intention of telling Ethan about the teaching internship I was offered at my alma mater. I’ve decided I can’t risk losing my job again. If Ethan knows about my recent email from Le Cordon Bleu, my prospects o
f being promoted to sous chef might evaporate.

  As I adjust positions in my seat to disguise the sudden tension in my muscles, the traffic in front of us begins to slow. “Traffic already?” I remark, reaching into my pocket for my phone, so I can check the traffic alerts for I-95. “Ugh. There’s an accident about eight miles ahead.”

  “Eight miles?” he says, glancing at my phone. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  I can’t help but look at him like he’s crazy. “Eight miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic in New York is a nightmare. We could be here for more than an hour.”

  “An hour? We won’t make it in time. Is there another road we can take?”

  The traffic is moving at a crawl, but it’s not at a complete stand-still.

  “I don’t know,” I reply, not bothering to remind him that I don’t drive. “Let me check Google Maps.”

  He taps the steering wheel impatiently as I search for a faster route.

  I shake my head as I tap on the last option offered by the app. “There are a few other roads, but by the time we get off the parkway and detour back to I-95, we’ll probably only save about five to ten minutes. We should just stay here in case it clears up.”

  The concern in his face makes me feel slightly guilty.

  “I’m sorry for suggesting this. You could be back at the restaurant working on another solution to the cabinet problem right now.”

  He appears puzzled. “You didn’t break the cabinet. You didn’t cause this traffic. Why are you apologizing for something out of your control?”

  His words hit me like a fist in the gut, rendering me speechless.

  He shakes his head. “It’s not my place to tell you what to do, Alice, but I think you could dial back the apologies.”

  My eyebrows shoot up as I attempt to regain my composure. “Uh...you’re right. It’s not your place to tell me what to do, so I’ll kindly ask you to stop.”

  “Kindly? Sort of the way you kindly keep apologizing.”

  My eyes widen. “Excuse me? Are you taking your frustrations with the traffic out on me? I seem to remember you were the one apologizing to me last night after taking your frustrations out on me yesterday. I would tread carefully if I were you.”