Wrong turn of phrase, dick.
Of course, she also blows through the backdoor like some sort of hurricane, shooting me a quick and withering look as she storms over to her station.
Oh, right, the whole terrorizing her in the bathroom bit. I’m slightly embarrassed of myself that I’d actually almost forgot about that.
I take another slow sip of my espresso as I watch her yank her knife set out of her bag and start to prep her station for the afternoon. Briefly, I wonder why I feel the need to act like such a fucking child around her; why I feel the need to poke and prod her like we’re children in a schoolyard. I mean objectively speaking, Chloe is a fucking knockout, and in that way where she really doesn’t quite know it, which is always just a deal-sealer when it comes to girls like her.
“You’re just being a dick cause I wouldn’t fuck you five years ago.”
I frown, letting my eyes freely roam over her tight little ass in those jeans. Is that it? Am I really that much of a fuckin’ hard-on that I can’t let that go from five damn years ago? I mean Christ, I’ve fucked like half the waitresses, bartenders, and hostesses between East End and Notting Hill since then. So how in the world does this girl with her attitude and her jeans and t-shirt and no makeup and her refusal to give me my way get me all turned around and acting like a stupid little kid?
I think again about barging into that bathroom this morning and catching the eye-full of Chloe I actually wasn’t expecting, and I can feel my dick getting hard inside my chef’s whites. Just picturing those tits and the curve of her ass as she shrieked and jumped for a towel had my pants tenting. Truth be told, I was expecting her to be in the shower, not just sitting there without a stitch of clothing or glass between us.
And what an ass. I can literally still picture running my hands over that ass as she moaned into my lips, albeit five years ago, and over pants of course.
Not, of course, that those details in any way diminish the throbbing of my erection in my pants.
She turns then, as if feeling my gaze on her, and for a second, our eyes meet and hold. And then she just sneers at me - fuckin’ sneers! - before she actually flips me off and starts to walk out of the kitchen, presumably to go change for the day.
Yeah, I could - and should - totally chew her out for that little act of rebellion in my domain, but the only other cooks in the kitchen are looking the other way anyways, and part of me decides she’s at least half justified in being pissy at me considering my morning antics.
Besides, letting it slide just means I can continue this slow burn of our little power dynamic, which is just too much fun to blow all at once.
“Oy.”
I turn to see Marco, my grill guy dropping his knife bag on the counter behind me and nodding his chin at me. Marco and me go way back to when we were kids. We go back to even before our first restaurant job, when we were both kitchen-prep bitches getting our asses collectively chewed out by everyone from the Head Chef down to the fuckin’ dishwasher. He’s my age; another hungry young buck looking to make a name for himself in kitchens.
Too bad his dad doesn’t own the place.
Okay, I mean I kind of hate that mine does, but I know Marco hates it. We’re the same age, had the same comings-up, worked in virtually the same kitchens, and I know the fact that I’m 23 and running a kitchen, and getting shit like “hottest young bad-boy chef in Britain” blog posts being written about me while he’s still my grill-guy irks him something wicked.
But hey, that’s the way the cookie crumbled, and truth be told, I’d be lost with literally anyone else besides Marco manning the hot-line come dinner rush.
In any case, he might still be sore about having to work for me, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t cool. Because we both get it, unlike Chloe, apparently. Kitchen shit is just that, kitchen shit. I can call someone a fuck-face and promise to sodomize their mother during the heat of battle of a dinner rush, but we’re both gonna be cool after a pint and maybe some darts after. Hell, if we can pick up some girls, even better.
“How we doin’ chef?” Marco claps me on the shoulder. See? We’re buddies, but even he gets it; he gets the code. In here, there’s order, and buddies aside, I’m the commander in chief.
“Big night,” I say, nodding and turning the menu notes I’ve written down towards him. Being Godfather in here doesn’t mean you don’t check in with your consigliere here and there; “Checked with Ian out front, too and we’ve got a full book for the night.”
“Yeah? Wicked.” Marco turns towards the espresso machine that I demanded we get for the kitchen staff right there on the line. Pricey little number, but you gotta figure, a bunch of cooks slugging down expensive coffee to get through a night is still probably a lot better - and cheaper - than having them blow lines of coke all night.
Just then, the side door to the kitchen opens, and Chloe walks in wearing her kitchen whites, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She shoots me a quick, and what I’m sure she thinks is a withering look, before stomping over to start prepping at her station.
Marco nudges me, and I glance back to see him nodding slowly as he grins and gestures with his chin towards Chloe; “Who’s the new bird?”
I arch a brow at him, “Forget it, and forget her. She’s a charity case for my dad, she’ll be out of here soon.”
“Even better,” Marco says, grinning like a shark at me.
I roll my eyes, tempering the curiously sudden rise of red anger inside, “Nah, brother, she’s a no-go.”
Marco shrugs. “Says you. Now, a man not so keen on defeat might just-”
“She’s my old man’s new fiancé’s daughter, knobhead.”
He barks out a laugh that has a few heads turning our way, “Your sister?! Oh shit, mate.”
“Naw, stepsister,” I say, shooting a quick look back at Chloe who’s very conveniently stuck earbuds into her ears at this point.
“Well, shit, either way, you’re not chasing that then I take it?”
I make a face at Marco. “No, mate; fuckin’ of course not. I’m not a bloody pervert or something.”
Yes, I am.
“The fuck you’re not, mate,” Marco says with a raise of his eyebrows. “But still, slipping it to your sister might be a little low-brow even for you.”
“She’s not my sister, ass.”
Marco cranes his head over my shoulder and raises his eyebrows, and I can feel that temper start to flare inside again as I watch his eyes dart all over Chloe’s back. “Well then, I guess you don’t mind if I take a swing, yeah?”
I can’t say shit. Okay, there’s a lot I want to say, but I’m mostly concerned right then about why the thought of Marco hitting on Chloe, or doing anything in the slightest fucking bit with her gets me fucking heated. I turn to look at her, watching as she separates eggs over a mixing bowl, her head moving with just the faintest movements to the beat of whatever she’s listening to, and just one stray lock of brown hair slipping over her cheek.
Easy, pal.
I swallow that heat though and put on my most nonchalant face as I turn back to Marco, “Nah, fuck off mate; we’ve got shit to do.”
He shrugs, eyeing her again in a way that has my blood boiling. “Well, soon then, yeah? We could get drinks tonight after-”
“Work, Marco,” I say firmly, nodding at his prep list.
“You got it, chef.”
There’s a meditative sort of state to baking. That probably sounds weird, but really, go try it sometime. And I don’t mean cracking open a box of instant brownies and then throwing on Netflix, I mean really baking. It’s the feel of an egg-yolk between your fingers, the smell of flour hanging in the air, the twirl of a spatula through a thickening mix. There’s the heat of an open oven, the sizzle of a sauce-pan, the bubbling of a glaze or the frothing of cream.
When I used to watch my dad back in the bakery when I was a kid, it was like being in Willy Wonka’s factory. It was magic - literally magic - watching everyday things that we even had in
our refrigerator back home turn into something like a towering cake, or rich velvety chocolate tart. Things that any eight year old would normally wrinkle their nose at, like raw eggs, or unsweetened chocolate, would suddenly and magically turn into something amazing.
I bake to clear my head, and because I love it. But I suppose I also do it to capture a little bit of that magic, wherever it may be still floating around the world like flour dust.
Baking is making something good in the world. It’s making something wonderful that makes people happy. At the end of the day, a cookie is just a cookie; a quiche or a tart is just a slice of lunch, really. But stirring and beating and mixing are all labors of love that go into this one thing, and sometimes the world just needs a little love put back into it.
It’s quiet as the rest of the kitchen starts to pack up after the shift. The counters are washed down, the grills turned off, knives sharpened, glasses polished, cutting-boards bleached, and lights turned low. I should probably go home, considering the late, sleepless night I had, followed by the horrible wake-up call this morning, all thanks to Oliver.
But instead, I’m staying here, in the semi-darkness of a now-quiet kitchen, baking.
“Need a taster?”
I whirl, yanking the headphones out of my ears, my hands flying to my chest, and my heart about jumping right out of my throat.
“Jesus, Oliver.” I suck in a deep breath, glaring at him, “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Let this be a lesson about wearing headphones in a kitchen then,” He says with a shrug of his shoulders. He’s out of his chef-whites, in jeans and a black-t-shirt with his face looking freshly scrubbed and his hair wet and slicked back from a shower downstairs. His full lips pull back into a cocky sort of grin. Smile lines etch his cheek and that strong jaw line draws my eyes before they dart up to meet his dark brown ones.
“You did good tonight, cupcake,” he says with a grin. He holds his hand out, passing a can of cheap-looking beer my way.
I make a face.
Oliver rolls his eyes, “What do you want, fucking champagne?” He smirks, “Welcome to kitchen life, luv. Now drink up.”
He cracks a second beer for himself before moving next to me to lean against the counter-top and peer down into the bowl I’ve been mixing. “So what are you making?”
“Just experimenting with a recipe for savory tarts. Balsamic-glazed wheat berry and brussel sprouts.”
He nods slowly, arching a brow, “Not bad, not bad. Tarts, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“A bit different from those buns of yours this morning then, eh?”
My face grows red and I shoot him a look. But for some reason, this time there’s nothing behind the look; at least none of the honest vitriol from earlier. This time it’s more a flirting look.
God, what am I doing?
And honestly, when and how exactly did me being pissed at this cocky little shit turn into whatever little flirtiness I’m showing now? Am I so cheap that I can be bought with a can of beer and a single mediocre comment about my job performance?
“You’re not drinking.” Oliver nods at the foamy beer in my hand, “C’mon, you’re like pissing on sacrament here.”
I roll my eyes. There’s Oliver for you, always so cocky and dominant.
Demanding.
“Fine,” I say, taking a big sip of the cheap beer in my hand. Hey, at least it’s cold this time. “But I’d ask that you please get my buns out of your head, thank you very much.” I roll my eyes as I pick up my whisk again and start to whip the batter I’ve got going in the bowl.
“Oy, you’re doing that wrong.”
I raise a brow as I look at him, “Excuse me?”
“The whisking,” he says with a shrug, “You’re beating the batter, not mixing it.”
“Seriously?” I give him a withering look before I roll my eyes and turn back to my mixing bowl.
“Look, it’s not a power thing,” he says, “I’m just saying there’s a better way.”
“Oh, right because you know all the best techniques.”
“Oh, trust me,” he grins at me, “My techniques would blow your mind, sweetheart,” he finishes with a wink that has the blood rushing into my cheeks.
Oliver moves behind me suddenly, his hand circling around me and coming to rest on top of my own over the handle of the whisk.
“Hey! Just what do you think you’re-”
“Relax, I’m just going to show you.”
I feel a shiver up my back at sound of his voice, so deep and low in my ear, as well as the feel of him so close behind me. I can smell whatever clean-smelling soap he’s used to wash his face. I can feel the heat and the hardness of his muscles pressing into my back.
“You’ve got to love the whisk, darlin’,” he husks into my ear, “Right now you’re jerking that thing like you’re giving it a fuckin’ handjob.”
“Jesus, Oliver,” I wrinkle my nose.
“What! That’s what it looks like!” He chuckles, and I feel his laughter through my back as he moves close, his other hand circling my waist. “Look, you just need to be more gentle. It’s more like you’re brushing hair, or conducting an orchestra or something.” He chuckles, “Not jerking a cock.”
I flush again, and I can feel him pressing against me. I can feel something else pressing against me too, actually.
I swallow thickly, “I’ve- I’ve got it now.”
“Do you?” He murmurs.
“Mhmm.”
But we’re still moving the whisk together, his hand over mine and our bodies moving together almost imperceptibly side to side as he guides my hand.
And I don’t want him to stop just yet.
I blush, knowing that hardness I can feel pressing into my ass is his cock growing rock hard against me, and feeling how, well, not small, that bulge is has me biting my lips. It has me questioning what it is we’re doing here and why I’m not pushing him away.
He leans in closer to me, his breath a warm tickle against my neck. I bite my lip, letting my eyes close for just a second as I let the fact that Oliver Beckett has one hand on my hip, the other on my hand, and his erection pressed firmly against my ass.
“You smell good, you know,” he murmurs, that accent melting over me.
I take a shaky breath, “Don’t.”
I can practically feel him smirk behind me, “Don’t what.”
“Smell me. I’ve been working all night, I’m gross.”
“Well you smell fantastic to me.”
My heart starts to race, and I feel my breath catch as the hand on my hip begins to circle around to my front, slowly pulling me back into him. “Oliver, we shouldn’t,” I say quietly, my eyes closing just a little as I let myself be pulled against him. Why does it have to feel so good?
“Shouldn’t what.”
“Do this.”
“And what exactly are we doing, Chloe?” He growls into my ear.
I have no idea, but I don’t really want to stop doing it.
Instead, I open my mouth, “So what do I smell like?”
“Like cookies.”
I laugh and start to turn, but he keeps me hard again the table, and I gasp at the feel of him as he presses his hardness right against me.
“No, you smell like jasmine, from your shampoo. And you smell like sage from the stuffing you made earlier.”
I bite my lip and close my eyes, the movement of the whisk slowing and then stopping as I feel him lean into my neck, his lips just shy of touching me as he all but nuzzles the curve of my shoulder.
Oh my god what are we doing?
“You smell fantastic, actually,” he says, rocking his hips into me, the bulge pressing hotly against my ass and those strong arms sliding around my waist. And I’m trembling for him. I hate that this cocky, arrogant little shit is having this effect on me, but it’s undeniable.
It’s undeniable that I’m absolutely soaked for him.
“Fantastic, huh?”
“Lov
ely, actually,” he murmurs, and this time I shiver as I feel his lips graze the side of my neck just under my jawline.
“Oliver...”
“But I’d wager something else smells even better right now,” he says darkly, his arms pulling me tight against him as we start to drop all pretense of him being here to help me bake.
“Something else that I bet smells like honey and smells like you’re as hot for this as I bet you are.”
Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance Page 6
