Who’s The Boss?

by McCarthy , Erin

  This sucked. I was in so much trouble.

  “Maybe you’ll find you like each other,” Savannah said, ever the optimist.

  “Maybe I’ll also find myself on a billionaire’s yacht in the Mediterranean. It’s not going to happen.”

  Nope. Wasn’t going to wind up liking Sean. But I was just a little bit concerned I might kiss the jerk again at some point.

  Just to remind myself what it was like.

  Maybe I’d made it seem better in my head than it really was.

  Maybe it had just been so tantalizing and sexy because he’d caught me off guard and because tensions were running high between us.

  Maybe I could kiss him again and it would be awkward or boring.

  And maybe I was a complete and total idiot.

  Martin arrived to meet me on time, but Isla was late. That didn’t surprise me. She probably was not in any hurry to see me. Though Martin being on time didn’t mean he was friendly. He’d given me a grunt and sat on the barstool next to me. Then he waved down the bartender and ordered a whiskey.

  I was just sipping a beer. I wasn’t there to drink. I wanted to clear the air, let them both know I would have never suggested Nico and Sid spring my hiring on them like that. “It’s good to see you again,” I said. “It’s been, what, six years since we worked together?”

  Martin gave me a long stare. “About that. I taught you everything I know. That was clearly a stupid move on my part.”

  We were getting straight to it. Fine. I didn’t need to fuck around at this point in my life. “I didn’t know you weren’t informed of my being hired. Just so you know. I would have never let Nico and Sid throw that little lunch meeting the way they did. I may be aggressive and confident, but I’m not a complete douchebag asshole.”

  Martin just grunted. “You still like to roll in to work hungover reeking like liquor and sex?” He threw back his whiskey in one shot.

  Damn. He had some serious anger going on.

  “No. I’m thirty-five now. But for the record, it never kept me from doing my job. I was a hard worker, you can’t deny that.”

  He still didn’t respond.

  “I still like liquor and women in case you’re wondering. But my personal life is none of your damn business.”

  Isla stepped into the bar and I gave her a wave.

  “Oh, no? You’re the one who brought your personal life into it by constantly having women into the restaurant and talking about your wild nights.”

  “Women into the restaurant?” He was so full of shit. “Once, Martin. Once, a woman I was seeing came in and threw a scene. How was that my fault? I didn’t know she was going to lose her crap on me in public.”

  Isla came up to us, gaze darting between us.

  “Okay, Chef Eight Dates. Whatever you say.”

  “Let it go, man. Seriously,” I told him. “This doesn’t have to be an issue. Let’s just move forward.” It wasn’t my fault I had advanced further in my career than he had. I wasn’t going to apologize for being successful. I was trying to be cool and professional but he obviously wasn’t interested in the same.

  “You know what? Fuck you.” Martin stood up and threw down some cash for his drink. “I’m too old for this shit. I don’t need to put up with this. I’m not working for some punk-ass manwhore who has more swagger than skill.”

  That was taking it too far. “Fuck me? No, fuck you. I have a ton of skill. I’ve earned this job and screw you if you can’t accept the reality of it. I deserve this position.”

  “I quit,” Martin said. “I’m not doing this.”

  “Martin!” Isla said, voice high in pitch. “You don’t want to do that. Think about your family.”

  But he shook his head. “I’m done. I’ve given my whole adult life to working for other people and I’m done. Good luck, Isla. You’re going to need it.”

  I didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to stop him. Let him quit. It wasn’t my problem. Look, I could totally understand his disappointment, but it wasn’t my fault and sometimes you just had to suck it up. But I guess he was done sucking it up. I could understand that too.

  “Martin,” Isla said. “Stop.”

  But he was already heading to the door.

  She sighed and sat down on the stool he’d exited. “That was not what I was expecting.”

  “Would you like to quit too?” I asked. “Might as well tell me now.”

  I was pissed off. On the one hand, it meant I could choose a chef I wanted to work with. But it wasn’t a good look.

  “I thought seriously about it,” she admitted. “All of yesterday.”

  That was honest, at least. “What stopped you?”

  “My rent and the fact that I don’t want you to win.”

  I laughed. She killed me. She had the most serious and sour look on her beautiful face. She was wearing overalls rolled at the ankles with combat boots. When she took her coat off, I got a great view of her toned arms and her full breasts. She had a fantastic body and I realized I shouldn’t be thinking about that, but hell, she was right there. I couldn’t help myself. She had that strong personality, the attitude, the ballbuster vibe that I didn’t usually go for. But with Isla, it was fun to spar with her. It turned me on.

  “So your plan is to stay at Bone and torture me?”

  “Pretty much.” She nodded to the bartender. “Can I get a vodka on the rocks, please?”

  She liked her drinks strong, like her attitude.

  “I’m going to tell you what I told Martin before he quit. I didn’t know that you two didn’t know I had been hired. I can’t imagine what the fuck Nico and Sid were thinking, announcing it like that. I would have never been on board with that if I had known. I just assumed that they’d told the two of you first, privately, and that this was an announcement to the rest of the staff.”

  I sipped my beer, waiting for her reaction.

  Isla tucked her hair behind her ear. She had earrings that were little sushi rolls. It was a whimsy I wouldn’t have expected from someone as no-nonsense as she was.

  “That does make you suck less,” she said. “I can admit that.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I said dryly. “Don’t pump up my ego.”

  “Your ego is just fine,” she said, eyeing me.

  I wondered if she was remembering that kiss we’d shared. Or if she was just picturing ways she could kill me and take my job.

  “Why did Martin call you Chef Eight Dates?” Isla asked me, raising her eyebrows.

  I grimaced. I would have preferred she had been contemplating either sex or murder over that. “That’s a stupid nickname that should have been retired years ago.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Was there a way to make this sound better than it was? Or to lie? No, because I was sure Martin would tell her the truth if she asked. That guy had it out for me for whatever reason. Back in the day, I had gotten along with him, so the animosity was new. I had to assume it had nothing to do with me but just his own frustration, but I didn’t know how tight he and Isla were in real life. If he was going to tell her, I’d like to beat him to the punch.

  “When Martin and I worked in a kitchen together about six or seven years ago, I was working my ass off at the restaurant and in my free time I was dating.” That was a polite way to put it. I couldn’t exactly say I’d been fucking my way across Brooklyn.

  She eyed me. “And?”

  “I was, well, stacking my dates because I was working so many hours. You know how it is in the restaurant business. It’s all-consuming and hell on the personal life. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. One week I had eight dates. The guys in the kitchen thought that was hilarious. They came up with that nickname. I can’t believe it’s followed me for this long.”

  Though I had to say it probably wasn’t totally inaccurate at this point in my life either. Maybe not eight, but I wasn’t opposed to meeting up with a couple of different women in one week.

  I liked women. Not one w
oman. But women. There was something so amazing about meeting someone for the first time and feeling that instant connection, that sexual chemistry. Meeting a stranger and having sex required no investment of time. It wasn’t hard work. I worked so hard in my career that I wanted dating to be easy, which meant I wasn’t actually dating. I was just having sex with random women who wanted the same thing. A quick, sexually satisfying night together and then move on to the next one.

  Were there times when I wanted more? Of course. More often the older I got. But that was a huge commitment of time and emotion, to massage a relationship forward into something special.

  “Wait, was it eight dates with the same woman or dates with eight different women?” Isla asked.

  “Different women.”

  The corner of her mouth turned up, like she was struggling not to laugh. “Wow. Impressive. You must have an abundance of energy and a great memory. That seems complicated as hell.”

  “It was, trust me. You’re bound to fuck up when you’re talking to that many women.” I had called one brunette by the wrong name. That had been the end of that date.

  “So what was the goal in doing that?” she asked. “I’m being totally serious. I don’t get it. I would never want to meet eight different guys in one week. That’s just dizzying.”

  “The goal was sex,” I told her. “I would have thought that was obvious. I figured the higher the numbers, the greater the odds of success in accomplishing my goal.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You’re… wow.”

  “What? I could have lied to you, but I don’t believe in putting a spin on it. I was in my twenties, I wanted to get laid. Is that so shocking?”

  “Not really. What’s more shocking is you thought you might fail, given what I’ve seen of your ego.”

  That made me nudge her leg with my knee. “Ouch. You wound me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I highly doubt it. And most people aren’t so calculating about sex.”

  “It wasn’t calculating. It was called the internet. You met people, you went out. People then and now were talking to multiple people at the same time. I never pretended I wasn’t.” I was starting to think she was tweaking me just to get under my skin. “Who cares, anyway? Martin quit. That’s all that is relevant here, not some ancient nickname.”

  “That is very relevant. And you’re right. I don’t care about your personal life. You could date half the women in New York and I don’t care.”

  That made me eye her. Why did she sound so sharp? We had kissed like it was the cusp of the apocalypse that night of Michael’s engagement party. Was she thinking about that? Was she jealous? “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Isla shook her head. “No.”

  That was a relief to me but I wasn’t going to look too deeply into the why of that.

  “Tell me you’ve never been on dating apps and I’ll tell you I don’t believe you.”

  “Of course I have. But I wasn’t trying to get nailed by eight guys in one week.”

  Damn. There was a visual. “I wouldn’t judge you if you had.” I wouldn’t. I loved sex. I’d have sex three times a day, seven days a week if I could. Four times on Sunday. “But I wasn’t trying to have sex with all eight women. I told you, I was assuming some would reject me.”

  “That is very humble of you,” she said, looking amused, and like she thought I was anything but.

  She wouldn’t be wrong. “It was.”

  Isla’s head tilted and she raised her glass to her lips and took a sip. Her eyes were sparkling and the tip of her tongue appeared to lick the rim of that glass. “Do I dare ask how your little experiment went? How many ladies did you charm out of their panties that week?”

  Damn. She was a sexy woman, even if she was annoying. Maybe more so because she liked to give it back to me.

  “I don’t fuck and tell,” I told her dryly. “But let’s just say I could have used an IV of fluids by the end of the week.”

  A snort escaped her mouth. “You’re a tool. I knew it in the elevator and you just confirmed it.”

  “And you’re aggressive and angry for no reason whatsoever.” We had definitely gotten off on the wrong foot on the elevator and I wasn’t even sure why. I didn’t even remember what we had said to each other prior to the elevator grinding to a painful and terrifying halt.

  I don’t do small spaces. I don’t like being trapped. Spelunking can suck a dick, it’s never going to happen. I won’t use the restroom on a plane, ride in a mini Cooper, or enter a small closet. The freezers in kitchens freak me the fuck out but I have a whole system of propping them open and making sure I always have my phone with me. Even Murphy beds disturb me.

  It stemmed from a childhood incident involving my father’s wine cellar. I’d walked into it, entranced by all the labels on the bottles. But right as I was studying a label with an almost naked woman drawn on it, the door had clicked shut. I had gotten trapped in the closet for nearly an hour before my mother found the origin of my screams. I still can’t look at certain chardonnays without breaking into a sweat.

  It’s irrational, it’s stupid, and I hate it, but I can’t seem to make it go away.

  Being trapped makes me a prick and I could tell Isla that, but it would mean I’d have to admit I had been afraid and now was not the time to offer up my vulnerabilities on a platter. If I handed her that ammunition, she’d be locking me in the freezer every chance she got, hoping I’d quit. She looked capable of that, easily.

  “Do you mean I’m angry now, or in the elevator?” she asked. “Because when you got in the elevator, I smiled at you. I tried to be nice, and you dismissed me. You didn’t even smile back.”

  Oh, so that was it. Her pride had been pricked. The reality had been I had gotten into the elevator against my better judgment. Normally I took the stairs but I had told myself it was only four floors, what were the odds anything would happen? So when I got in the elevator I had barely noticed her. I was concentrating on holding my annoying and irrational fear at bay.

  I sipped my drink and eyed her. “I don’t love elevators. It was nothing personal. Besides, I believe you called me an asshole at least once. You made your point.” Right before she had kissed me. Or had I kissed her? It was hard to say. It was more like a mutual meeting of the mouths.

  “Fine,” she said shortly. “Why am I here, exactly? What is this supposed to accomplish? Other than treating me to the joy of hearing about your manwhore days.”

  Yep. Angry. “I thought we could clear the air about me being sprung on you at the meeting. Like I said, I thought you already knew. The question is how do we work together as a team going forward.”

  She made a face and rolled her eyes.

  “That’s a reassuring response.” I raised my drink in salute.

  “Why did you kiss me?” she asked.

  The question caught me off guard.

  “Because you looked like you wanted me to.”

  It was the wrong answer. I knew it the minute the words left my mouth.

  It was confirmed when she threw her drink in my face.

  Or she would have if she hadn’t been sipping a vodka on the rocks. Mostly what happened when she tried to toss liquid in my direction was the ice shifted around in her glass. One piece slipped out and did hit me in the chest but the bulk of the ice held back until gravity yanked the cubes out and they fell between our legs to the floor. The vodka followed it, mostly landing on Isla’s knee.

  “Great talk,” I told her.

  Three

  Sean was just watching me impassively, the corner of his mouth turning up as he fought a smile. The ice cube that had hit him in the chest bounced off and he had caught it and popped it into his mouth. His teeth crunched into the ice and I seethed.

  He hadn’t even had the decency to jump when I’d attempted to throw my drink in his face. It’s like he’d already known it would fail. I was the only one who had gotten wet. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just my knee that was damp. What the hel
l was it about him that turned me on?

  I hated it. I hated him.

  “I did not want you to kiss me.” It might have been the biggest lie I’d told since claiming I was sneaking back into our apartment at fifteen years old at six in the morning to pick up my forgotten homework and I hadn’t wanted to disturb my grandfather. The look he’d given me could have peeled paint. He’d known I’d been out all night. Just like Sean knew I had kissed him willingly.

  “My mistake.” Sean handed me a napkin.

  I took it and blotted the knee of my jeans. I shouldn’t have even brought it up. He had asked how we moved forward and I had been unable to resist the urge to bring up the stupid kiss. It had been bugging me that he seemed perfectly content to pretend it had never happened. It was a personality flaw. I was notorious for asking questions when there was no possible way I was going to like the answer.

  “As long as you respect me as a professional and peer, we’ll be fine in the kitchen,” I said, answering his previous question a little after the fact.

  He glanced down at my empty glass. “Professional. Sure.”

  For a second I was speechless, which was unprecedented. Then I opened my mouth to say who the hell even knew what, but it was going to be scathing, when both of our phones buzzed simultaneously.

  It was Nico texting me.

  Are you sure you want to quit? I’ll give you one shot at taking it back.

  My stomach clenched and my throat tightened up. I hadn’t quit. Had Martin told him that I was quitting too?

  Then I realized my text bubble sitting above his words said quite clearly, “I quit.”

  Oh. My. God. Somehow the text I had typed at Savannah’s just to get my emotions out had been sent. I had never intended to send that. I’d actually thought I’d deleted it.

  But right after that I had handed my phone to Sully. Oh, help, a baby had texted my boss telling him I quit. Shit, shit, and shit.

  “You’re quitting?” Sean asked, and damn if he didn’t sound happy about that.