by Aubrey Irons
It takes me a second, but when it hits me, it sticks with me. Because that’s when it clicks. What annoys me the most about her standing over there with headphones in her ears and pretending she didn’t see me walk in - pretending she didn’t see me make myself an espresso three meters away from her, glaring at her the whole time - is that games like this are totally beneath a girl like her. Because she’s not just ignoring me, she’s making a game of it. She’s making it obvious she is, which sort of dilutes the whole purpose ignoring someone.
A girl like Chloe Caulfield is way above playing games with a knucklehead like me, and that’s what gets under my skin like a splinter.
I nod at Ian when he pokes his head into the kitchen, and grin when he glares at me. Yeah, there’s the face of a six a.m. Barney Beckett wake-up call if I ever saw one. He coughs and makes a nodding gesture for me to follow him back out to the empty dining room.
“Oy, heard you got a call from room service bright and early this morning,” I grin, sipping at my espresso as I step around the tables stacked with chairs, “Sorry about that.”
He glares at me before he snorts and shakes his head. “Eh, no worries. I make Jerry take just about every call I get from your old man, I don’t think he can actually tell us apart.”
I laugh.
“Listen though, there’s another call I got just now you should know about.”
“Oh? What’s it now?” I roll my eyes, “Barney changing the whole theme of the place to a topless chips shop?”
“Your pastry cook is putting out feelers.”
I freeze, espresso cup midway to my lips, “Huh?”
Ian nods. “Got a call from Sean over at Maxwell, checking out her references.” He glares at me, “Ollie, I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to find a decent pastry cook right now.”
She wants to quit? Over one fucking argument? I can feel my teeth grinding together as I glare into my coffee cup.
“Look, make nice, okay?” We can’t be changing over staff in between Times reviews; you know that.” Ian shrugs, “Besides, I like her.”
“Oh, well, in that case-” I roll my eyes at Ian, “And why is she so high on the Ian Johnson opinion meter?”
“Because she serves your shit right back to you, that’s why,” Ian says with grin and a raised eyebrow.
Cocky git.
“I’ll handle it.”
“Nicely, Ollie.”
“Oy, you want me to tell you how to manage your fucking wait staff?”
Ian laughs as he heads towards his office, “Play nice!” He calls back over his shoulder.
I stand amongst the empty tables of the dining room for another minute, stewing things over. She’s looking for another job? Already?
Let her, the voice inside says with a shrug; Why not? Weren’t you bitching about how living AND working with her was messing with your head?
And the voice is right; I should just let her do what she wants. I should call Sean back right now, give her a glowing recommendation, send her on her merry fucking way, and then go fuck half the waitresses on Ian’s staff.
That’s what I should do, when it comes to Chloe.
...Of course, I’m not always that good at doing what I should do, am I?
So, she wants to play games? Fine; bring it. I can play kid games too.
Games like walking back into the kitchen, heading directly for my little office, and text messaging her with descriptions of every single thing I want to do to her.
It’s amazing how graphic you can be in a text message these days. Emojis are downright filthy if you use them right.
I’m completely aware it’s a bit of a mixed message after my behavior last night when I yelled at her like that, but let her stew on it. Let her think about my dirty, crude, filthy messages all day and night while she tries to work. Let her try and get orders out while I’m texting her the places I want to put my tongue, or where I want to screw her.
Let her try and think about swapping jobs when I tell her how hard I am, or how I’m dying to pull her panties off with my teeth and taste the honey between her legs.
Of course, I get absolutely nothing back; not even a look my way even though I definitely catch her looking at her phone at least half a dozen times throughout the shift with wide eyes and pink cheeks.
Okay, so I don’t get a literal response back, but watching her cheeks go bright red as I send her another detailed description of my cock or some other dirty position is certainly just as good.
It’s a start, at least.
“Okay, you need to stop it.”
I grin as I finish pulling my sweaty t-shirt off in my office and turn to see her standing in my doorway. She may have just worked a fairly grueling shift, and she may be frowning at me, but damn if she doesn't looking sexy as sin standing there in jeans and a tank-top with her hair cascading down her shoulders.
“What do you want, Oliver?” She says, crossing her arms over her chest and scowling at me.
It’s not doing a thing to make her any less hot.
“Haven’t I been making what I want fairly clear all damn day?” I say with a grin, “Oh, wait, you do get cell service in here, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “You can’t text me like that. It’s inappropriate.”
I shrug, “I disagree.”
“It’s sexual harassment.”
I give her a look, loving that forced heat to her eyes that says she’s trying to convince herself of what she’s saying about as hard as she’s trying to convince me.
“Don’t you think we’re a bit past that?”
Her face flushes scarlet. “Do not remind me.”
“So what is this about you working for Sean over at Maxwell’s? What, I yell at you once and in the kitchen and you decided you can’t stand the heat?”
“No, I woke up and realized I didn’t need to spend my time fooling around with an asshole.”
“How about ignoring me? That part of the deal?”
“Looks that way,” she snaps.
I roll my eyes.
“Look, it’s not appropriate, okay? What we did-” She blushes again and drops her eyes as she pushes her hair back from her face, “We can’t do things like that, Oliver. Our parents-”
“Are grown adults, Chloe; sort of like us.”
“It’s wrong.”
“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”
“I have to go.”
“Oh c’mon! Look, stick around, okay? I promise I’ll be good.” She arches a brow at me and I grin. “Okay, I’ll make a solid effort to be good at least. Don’t go over to Maxwell’s, we need you here.”
She chews on her lip and says nothing as she takes a deep breath.
“I need you here, alright? For work reasons,” I add quickly when she shoots me a look.
“Fine.”
I grin, “Fine?”
“Fine, I’ll stay.”
“Atta girl.”
“But one more text about your- your-”
“Cock?”
She blushes, “Yes, Oliver. One more of those and I’m gone.”
I laugh. “Aww, c’mon, luv! I’m just dying for female attention over here!”
Chloe rolls her eyes, “I seriously doubt that.”
Okay, I admit it; there’s a teeny bit of a thrill that comes with Oliver chasing after me in order to get me to stay at Jolie. It’s like this little illicit feeling of glee inside when he makes the show - however crude - at getting me to stay. And yet, at the same time I find I’m exasperated with myself for even thinking like that.
Because the truth is, I need Oliver in my life like I need another hole in my head. Yeah, pass.
Jolie is mercifully closed on Mondays, as is the trend for restaurants of that caliber, and so waking up that morning is like waking up to a sort of mini vacation.
And it is sort of vacation for me, in a weird way I guess. I mean I am in Europe, right?
Part of me wants to just spend the whole day in bed,
just shutting out the world, catching up with friends back home, and really just staying the hell away from Oliver. But I last about 45 minutes before the lack of coffee in my room and feelings of cabin fever get to be too much for me and I leave my sanctuary behind.
Instead, I decide to go for a run.
Hoxton and Shoreditch are gritty older parts of East London, but pretty in a sort of broken way. It’s an “up and coming” area, as they say, as evident by the mix old-time looking gangsters and shopkeepers mixed with hipsters in ironic glasses and t-shirts.
I run past 150 year old sausage shops next to week-old pop-up vegan ice-cream parlors, the shoe-shine on the corner in front of a new Nike store.Battered brick walls covered with wheat-paper posters for bands I’m not nearly cool enough to have heard of. I even have to grin at the sight of an iconic Banksy street-art painting along the brick wall of a chip-shop in a building older than my entire neighborhood back home in L.A..
I push it harder than I usually do, forcing myself to breathe and forcing my legs to pump faster and faster, until my whole body is screaming for a cease-fire and break from the torture. It’s almost as if I’m trying to outrun everything in my head, but when I look up, gasping for breath, and realize I’m right back in front of the house I started at. I know there’s no escaping your own head.
I’ve managed to blow off some steam, but I still haven't blown him out of my mind.
The house is quiet, Oliver’s not home - I check, even poking my head into his room to make sure.
Thank goodness.
A day of rest from the restaurant won’t exactly do a whole lot of good if I have to spend it with Oliver anyways.
I peel my shirt off as I walk into my room, and I’ve got my sports bra halfway over my head when the voice to the right of me about gives me a heart attack.
“I made you something.”
“Jesus FUCK!” I whirl, covering my chest with my hands. It’s Oliver, of course, slumped in my desk chair behind the door and grinning at me.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” I hiss at him, wanting to punch him in his stupid face if only doing so wouldn’t give him an eyeful of my tits in the process. “You can’t just waltz in here, you dick.”
“You know, I think pastry chefs are supposed to be nicer.” He furrows his brow, as if delving deep into thought. “Definitely nicer, usually grandmothers with gray hair maybe?”
I tighten my jaw, “What do you want Oliver?”
He smirks at me, “I don’t think they’re supposed to have a rack that nice either,” he says, nodding his chin at my cleavage.
I roll my eyes, “Okay, get out.”
“Hey, hang on, chill. I told you, I made you something.”
“If it’s another haiku about your dick or something crude about my...my pussy-” He grins wickedly when I say the word, “Then you can fuck right off, right now.”
“Chloe, please, those sort of shenanigans are so beneath me.”
I almost grin, “Since when, today?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
This time I do crack a smile.
“Anyways, it’s nothing like that. I actually made you something. Well, future tense, I guess. I’m going to make you something.”
I furrow my brow at him, “Huh?”
He stands, “Look, just come down to the kitchen after you shower, alright?”
“Why,” I say suspiciously.
“Because I’m going to cook for you, that’s why.”
The smell of cooking garlic and the sizzling sound of a stove-top wash over me as I pad down the stairs after my shower.
Oliver looks up with a grin as I step into the Beckett’s open-style kitchen and nods towards one of the bar stools at the island counter, “Sit.”
“Bossy.”
“Always.”
I grin and roll my eyes as I take a seat. “So, what are we having?”
“Sage and pumpkin ravioli in a balsamic reduction with braised brussel sprouts and wheat-berries on the side.”
My stomach roars, “Holy crap. Okay, I’m impressed.”
“I do do this professionally, you know,” he says with a quick grin before he goes back to stirring the cast-iron pan on top of the stove.
“So what brought this on?”
“What, cooking for you?” He looks up and winks, “Consider it a peace offering, I guess. I was-” He clears his throat, “I was maybe a bit more of a dick than necessary the other night.”
He turns the flame off on the stovetop and whisks the pan over to a plate already drizzled with what looks like balsamic and herbs. He finishes the plate with a flourish before sliding it in front of me.
Holy crap.
The plate in front of me looks like it could be right off the pages of a gourmet cookbook.
I glance up at him, grinning as my stomach rumbles, “Peace offering, huh?”
“The best kind.”
“So, no poison?”
Oliver laughs. “You have zero faith in me don’t you?” He rolls his eyes and drops a fork next to me at the counter, “Mange.”
I close my eyes at the first bite, savoring how utterly perfect it is, “Okay, damn.”
He grins, “Can’t even taste the poison, can you?”
“Ass.”
I fork another bite of the insanely good food into my mouth before I glance back at up at him, “You know, a note or something might’ve been smoother than sneaking around my room waiting for me to get home.”
“Yeah well a note wasn’t going to have a shot at catching a peek of you changing, now would it?”
I choke on the ravioli as my cheeks flush red while Oliver just smirks at me.
With a roll of my eyes, I push my plate away and start to get off of my stool.
“Oy! Hang on now, luv!” Oliver jumps around to my side of the kitchen island, frowning at me, “Look, I’m sorry, it was meant to be a peace offering, okay?”
He’s right in front of me, basically boxing me in with my back against the counter, and I glare at him. “It’s not a peace offering if you’re being crude about it.”
He rolls his eyes, “Yeah, must’ve missed that bit in the ‘Recipes for Peace Offerings’ cookbook.”
I quickly try and hide the grin that comes to my lips, but he catches it anyways, “Ahh, she does smile.” He arches his brow at me and takes another step closer, his hands on either side of me on the counter. “So, was the ravioli that bad that you’re just going to walk away?”
He moves closer, so close that he’s right in front of me. And I know I should by pushing him away, or telling him he shouldn’t get so close, or something-
Except the first thought that comes unbidden to my mind isn’t that he shouldn’t be so close to me.
It’s that I want him closer.
I swallow thickly, trying to swallow the sudden illicit thoughts about him in the motion as look up into his dark eyes. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m seeing how your meal was. I’m a chef, it’s sort of what we do.”
I raise my eyebrows, trying to will the blush away from my cheeks and calm the racing of my pulse with him so close to me like this. “And do you ask everyone you cook for how it was while you’re three inches away from them?”
“Only the especially attractive, especially difficult ones.”
He winks, his hands on both sides of the counter keeping me there, invading my space and my senses and making my head spin.
“So,” he leans close, “how was it,” he whispers into my ear, making my pulse race even faster.
“It…it was good.”
“Just good?”
“Mhmm.” Words; I don’t trust myself to even use them right now. I barely trust myself to even open my mouth. He pulls back, there’s a beat, and then it’s like the floodgates giving way as we come crashing together.
He growls into my mouth in this primal way that has me shivering in his arms as he shoves me back onto one of the kitchen prep tables. He pulls o
ne of my legs up to his waist, and I wrap it around him as he presses against me, his hands sliding over my ass as his tongue explores mine.
I gasp as he breaks the kiss and spins me around, and then I’m moaning as he bends me over the counter and pushed my skirt up. “Oliver-”
“See?” He growls into my ear as he bends over me, his fingers sliding under my panties and through my wetness, teasing across my clit. His voice lowers as he presses his lips right against my ear, “I knew I’d have you begging for it.”
I bite back the whimper at my lips as he slides a finger deep inside of my pussy. “You wish,” I manage to croak out, my brow furrowing as his finger begins to slowly stroke in and out of me.
I’m on fire for him; on fire for this dominant, coarse man and wanting him to take me every which way he wants to. Deep down, I’m dying to feel him sink that big cock to the hilt inside of me and fuck me like he owns me. I moan at the thought, pushing back against his fingers as I close my eyes and bite my lip.
I might be soaking wet, and desperate to come, and practically melting under his touch, but I am not going to beg him. I’m not going to stroke that damned ego of his any more than the rest of his world does.
He chuckles as if reading my thoughts, his magical fingers slowly drawing lazy circles around my clit and making my body melt for him. He presses against my bare thigh, and I try not to moan at the feel of his thick bulge pressing against me.
“Oh please, sweetheart; let’s not pretend you don’t want every inch of this cock inside of you. Let’s not pretend you don’t want me to make you come harder than you’ve ever come before.”
Between his words and those fingers of his, I feel like I might go insane if I don’t come soon.
“I’m going to fuck you, Chloe Caulfield,” he says darkly into my ear; “It’s really just a matter of whenever you say the words, luv,” he growls into my ear.
I bite my lip, swallowing the moan threatening to tumble out; refusing to give in.
“See,” he growls deeply into my ear, “you think you’re going to hold out here, but I haven’t even begun, sweetheart.”
