by Aria Cole
CONTENTS
title
rights
introduction
dedication
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
epilogue
second epilogue
Under Her Hood
one
two
Acknowledgments
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Also by Aria Cole Black White Swan Scarlet
UNDER PRESSURE
(BLUE-COLLAR ALPHAS)
ARIA COLE
UNDER PRESSURE
Copyright © 2017 by Aria Cole
Cover Design: Sybil at PopKitty Design
Editing: Silently Correcting Your Grammar
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
Jean-Luc Martel knows good taste. As the award-winning celebrity chef of éloïse, he's amassed a high-end clientele and hordes of dedicated foodie fans. But while he's a master in the kitchen, his reputation for being a nightmare to work with precedes him. Known for his rapid-fire temper, chiseled good looks, and a dash of tattooed, bad boy edge, Jean-Luc doesn't take shit from anyone. Until he meets Delaney Thomas. She's talented, sassy, entirely too sexy for her own good, and the niece of his best friend and sous chef.
Every bone in his body is telling him to take what's his, but outside forces soon conspire to pull them apart, and Jean-Luc finds himself more torn and tortured than he's ever been. As his bad boy reputation threatens to rattle the very foundations of the forever he's trying to build with Delaney, they'll both be forced to decide if love really can exist under the most intense pressure.
Warning: Jean-Luc is a sex-on-a-stick, walking, talking, blue-blooded alpha male. The only thing that melts this man's frozen heart is the woman of his dreams, and something tells him nothing would taste sweeter than Delaney on his tongue. If you can't handle the heat, stay out of Jean-Luc's kitchen!
For Chantal—Jean-Luc is all for you, mon ami!
ONE
Jean-Luc
“Get these out the door. Come on, guys! It’ll be fucking cold by the time it reaches the table!” I belted, pushing two elegantly decorated plates into the hands of the next server that walked into the kitchen.
She looked at me, eyes wide as she struggled, nearly dropping one of them.
“Table twelve.” The growl that vibrated from my throat must have done its job. She spun, racing right back out the doors she’d come through without a word.
“Fuck, who does the hiring around here?” I shoved a hand into the deep pocket of my apron and pulled out my pack of cigarettes. I was supposed to be quitting, one last habit I hadn’t quite been able to shake. “I’ll be back in five.”
I waved, leaving the kitchen staff to handle the firing of a new round of dishes. Sometimes I imagined what my life would be like if I went somewhere else, cut and run on this little venture, but I couldn't, because it was my little venture.
I groaned, shoving through the back door to the alleyway and leaning against the cold brick as I lit the stick in my mouth. I took one long, slow inhale, letting the smoke evaporate my anxiety, feeling it coil through my body like an instant muscle relaxer. No wonder I couldn't quit these little babies; my life was too damn stressful at éloïse not to have a few vices to get me through.
“Chef?” My sous chef, Nero, pushed through the crack in the door.
“Fuck, what, man? I can’t take any more shit tonight. I’m going to start taking the hiring away from Frank. I can’t carry the front and the back of the house by myself.”
Nero’s eyes widened before someone stepped out from behind him, almost smaller than he was, as if that were possible. She was barely five foot two and had enough curves to get a man lost for days.
“Who’s this?” I drew on my cigarette.
“This is my niece. Frank hired her as the hostess, but she’s got some experience expediting.” Nero nodded. “She grew up in my father's restaurant, knows her way around things real well.”
“How old is she?” I tried like hell to keep my eyes off her oversized ocean-blue ones. Christ, why did she keep looking at me like that? Like she was seeing inside my soul. Every goddamn dark corner I kept hidden, she shone a light on. It made me uncomfortable, made me kinda fucking itch. I sucked another lungful of cancer into my body and exhaled, trying to shake the feeling, praying the nicotine would do its job and relax my muscles into submission.
“Just turned twenty-one,” Nero finally answered. I knew his family came from a long line of chefs, cooks, and restaurateurs. They were an accomplished family in their own right, and that’s why he was my right-hand man. Also, because he knew me, inside and out. Every shameful secret I had, Nero knew. He was one of the few people who knew everything about me that I actually kept around—and only because he was a damn good cook. I couldn't run this place half as well without him, and I paid him top dollar to show my appreciation. Fucker deserved a gold mine for the hell I put him through.
I’d met Nero years ago, during a time I’d rather forget. That guy had seen me at my worst. And now that we were both in a better place, it’d only made sense that I bring him on when I finally cajoled investors and was able to open my own restaurant. Whoever sank two million into the startup of éloïse had to be a little crazy, and Frank was no doubt that, but he also saw something in me no one else had: passion. Food was my life, and it was the only thing that saved me all those years ago when I was destitute on the street.
But that was the past, and hell if I liked lingering there.
Éloïse, home of seasonal local dishes that evolved on a daily basis, was my baby. All plates curated by me, Chef Jean-Luc Martel. Food & Wine had rated me #1 up-and-coming chef to watch when I was twenty-two. I’d had a rocky road the first half of my thirty-two years, but the second half I’d made count.
The one thing I apparently did not have?
A decent waitstaff.
“Tell Frank I want to chat with him about hiring,” I shot to Nero, tossing my cigarette in the butt tray then finally catching the eye of the blue-eyed beauty who’d been cowering in the shadows before now. “What do I call you?”
She took a step into the light, eyes narrowing before her lush lips opened. “Delaney Thomas.” I swore when she said her name a lightning bolt cleaved my heart in two. “Can’t wait to work with you, Chef.”
Christ, I was in deep water with this one.
My gaze ate up and down her form. “How loud do you holler?”
Her eyes flared with surprise as Nero’s laugh pulled me from Delaney Thomas. “I’ll catch you later, Lane.” Nero patted Delaney on the back, shaking his head at me before putting up a finger. “Go easy on her, Chef.”
“Goin’ easy on anyone never got them anywhere.” I knew that firsthand. I’d worked tooth and nail to get this place, and the fact that the front of the house was all but failing was a thorn in my side. I had to take the reins on hiring, and I only hoped Miss Delaney Thomas knew what she was doing because I didn’t have the tolerance for ineptitude. There was a reason éloïse was a Michelin starred restaurant, and I planned on keeping it that way.
“I can work front or back, wherever you want me,” she said. Her uncle had left us alone, this dark alleyway and a sliver of moonlight the only things separating me from her.
Our bodies.
Fuck.
I hadn’t thought about a woman this way since… Hell, maybe ever. And that irritated me. Everything
about this irritated me. How could I work in the kitchen when she was floating around, bumping against my body, and leaning over, her gorgeous tits flashing in my—
“Where do you want me, Chef?”
I cleared my throat, suddenly starved for something. Her, underneath me, would satisfy my craving, for starters.
I moved closer, the heady scent of delicious peaches unfurling around me. Jesus, did she really smell like that? I wanted to bury my face in her creamy, delicious flesh and take my fill. Eat and drink from her altar until I was covered in her juices, dripping with the scent of ripe peaches and Delaney. Damn, I bet she tasted like honey.
Fuck. I had a problem.
“I’ve got high standards, Delaney. I’m not an easy man to please.” I paused, leveling her with my eyes. “I hope you can handle the pressure.”
One eyebrow arched, beautiful red painted lips quirking up in a soft grin. “You might be surprised what I can handle.”
Her arms crossing over her chest drew my attention to the delicate petal pink fabric falling over her heavy tits. I sucked in another inhale of peach-scented heaven, my jaw tense as I growled, “Don’t wear the smelly shit tomorrow.”
I don’t think my dick can handle it.
“Sure thing, Chef.” She tilted her head to the side and walked back through the back door, belting out orders to the kitchen staff like she’d been doing it her whole life.
Jesus.
I didn’t know if I should thank Nero for saving my life or fire him for torturing me with his niece.
Delaney was in my kitchen and under my skin, and I’d only known her five damn minutes.
I was in so much trouble.
TWO
Jean-Luc
The following night, just like clockwork, the evening rush hit, and I was left slammed and short a server. I felt that old fire crawling up my throat as I tried to control my tongue. I knew hollering at these guys wasn't always the most productive, but I also sure as hell knew there was sometimes only one way to get someone's attention. In my case, I used words. Also, a shouting voice. Sometimes.
A server walked in, explaining that one guest had ordered a medium-well filet and received medium-rare. I took a deep breath, spinning on my heel and walking right up to the hostess stand at the front of house.
“Delaney,” I hummed at her ear. Her head turned sharply, eyes holding mine for extra long beats.
Shit, one look from her and I forgot my own fucking name.
“Yes, Chef?” Her berry pink lips parted, and I had an instant vision of her on her knees, my dick covered in that pretty pink lipstick.
I swallowed the anxiety crawling up my throat and asked, “Can you expedite for a bit? I need a minute.”
Her eyes softened instantly, looking me up and down as if to make sure I was okay. And hell, I didn’t know why, but her concern for me felt good.
“Sure thing, Chef.” She nodded, and I placed a hand at her back, tracking behind her to the kitchen as the assistant hostess stepped behind the stand to take over for Delaney.
“Thanks, I owe you.”
Her eyebrow arched playfully, full lips curving and making my heart do a weird fucking flip-flop thing. “I'll hold you to that.”
“Then I'll look forward to it.” I shot her grin before stepping outside and fishing in my pocket for a smoke. Leaning back on the wall, I lit it and took my first lungful, the nearest thing to relaxation I ever felt seeping through my veins.
My eyes landed on the name plaque on the side of the brick wall that read éloïse and the address. I’d come a long way in the years since I'd been walking these streets. First, as a student at the French-language school, something my mother had insisted on to “give me back my French roots.” I'd always rolled my eyes and complained about the little tie I was required to wear with that stupid uniform. But the joke was on her because those French roots had formed me more than anything else.
After my mom had passed and my grandmother took me in, she taught me all the recipes her parents had taught her. French stews and ratatouilles, she brought it all to life in her small kitchen. By the time I was a full-blown teenager, I'd lost my way, hanging with all the wrong people and too willing to put every different drug I could find in my arm or up my nose.
But when grandma passed and she'd left me a small inheritance, I'd made the best decision of my life and licked my wounds at the French culinary institute in Paris.
For two years, I lived and breathed traditional French cooking, learning all the basics again and putting my own spin on classic dishes.
Those were the best years of my life, and Grandma had managed to save me yet again in her own, quiet way.
Thank God for that woman.
It was why I'd named éloïse after her.
I owed that woman my life.
I had no idea I was about to owe another woman the second half of it.
I stubbed out my smoke, ducking back into the kitchen and washing my hands quickly. I stepped out of the bathroom just in time to hear Delaney barking orders at a line cook. She was speaking to him in rapid-fire Italian, his head hanging as he nodded quickly, hands working to re-fire a steak.
“Three strikes and you're out, you got it? I won't send another poor excuse for a dish out of those doors.” Delaney ended in English, leveling him with a hard-as-nails glare.
My cock throbbed behind my chef pants.
Jesus Christ, she was a mini-me.
The walking, talking, sexy female version of me.
But then she did the thing I never had it in me to do. Where I usually walked away for a cigarette to calm my nerves, she paused, sidling up next to him and teaching him to test the doneness at the edge with the corner of the spatula.
He nodded, promising he would do just that next time, and she sent him that luscious smile and patted him on the back. “Thank you.”
I stood stock-still, the chaos of the kitchen silent to my ears when she turned, walking back to the warming station where she picked up the next ticket to be expedited.
My heart shattered against my ribs as I watched her, totally fucking thunderstruck by not just her beauty, not just her wit, but her absolute fucking ability to own the kitchen.
She was a woman after my own heart.
She was sexier than hell
She was every damn thing I never realized I was missing, and it took every single ounce of control I had not to haul her off into the walk-in pantry and get lost in her until everything felt right again.
Watching Delaney in the kitchen just became my new favorite pastime.
THREE
Delaney
“This is fancy shit, Lane. Look at you, all upscale!” Gia, my best friend since middle school, hooted.
“It’s not upscale. Believe me.” I shook my head. “It’s just hosting anyway, not like I’m plating those fancy dishes or anything.” I wrapped another fork and knife up in a white linen napkin and stacked it on the pile with the rest.
“But you said the chef had you working in back the first night you were here. Maybe you can start making salads or desserts or—”
I shook my head. “I don’t even know if I want to be in the food business. I’d still like to go to school, get my associates maybe.”
“Associates in what?” She shoved a sucker in her mouth, propped on top of a barstool with her legs crossed. The perpetual thirteen-year-old that was Gia. I loved her for it, but even I knew we’d need real jobs someday.
“I could do secretarial—”
“That sounds boring as shit.” She popped the sucker in her mouth obnoxiously.
“What does?” Chef Jean-Luc walked up behind the bar, brushing against me as he punched a number into the computer screen. He was so close, his scent traveling up my body and warming my insides. Working side by side with the very sexy, very moody Jean-Luc was proving a challenge.
“Lane says she’s going to be a secretary when she grows up.” Gia cocked her head to the side with a wry smile. I rolled my eyes
.
“Secretary of what?” Chef scowled. That look on his face had become an embarrassingly regular occurrence in my presence. I was beginning to think he despised even being around me.
“I dunno, a secretary. A medical biller, something behind a keyboard.”
Chef only arched an eyebrow in response. “You should listen to her. That sounds boring as shit.”
Gia belted out a laugh, rising from the chair and sliding on her coat. “I’ve got to run, girl. But I’ll text you later?”
“Text you later.” I blew her a kiss as she plowed backward through the front doors or éloïse.
Part of me wanted to run away with her.
Uncle Nero hadn’t been kidding when he’d said éloïse needed help. I couldn’t figure out why. Everyone knew Jean-Luc Martel; he was a regular personality in the streets of Chelsea and had appeared on a few morning talk shows. He was the up-and-coming celebrity chef to watch right now, and when Food TV had come calling, he’d made waves when he’d declined, then opened his own restaurant right in the neighborhood where he’d grown up. Éloïse was one of the first chic restaurants to hit the streets of Williamsburg, and a wave of them seemed to follow right after. It was clear Jean-Luc wasn’t following the trend; he was the trend.
“A computer job isn’t for you, ya know,” he offered as he punched out on the computer screen.
“And you would know this, how?” I rested my hip on the edge of the bar, taking him in. The thick forearms decorated with dark slashes of ink, colorful snakes and designs trailing up muscle.
The other thing about Jean-Luc Martel—he was drop-dead gorgeous.
Tall, tattooed, and totally badass.
I probably would have sighed and swooned at his feet if it weren’t for the grumpy damn mood he always seemed to be in.
