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Cockney:A Stepbrother Romance(7)

By:Aubrey Irons


     



 



I turn to him, meeting his glare with my own, "Look, it was an accident, okay?"



Oliver is utterly silent, and other people start glancing up in the  kitchen; the sound of a few hushed whispers and smirks the only noise in  the now dramatically quieter kitchen.



"WHAT did you just say?" His voice is edged, like he's really about to  yell at me. I know from the little smirk in his eyes that he can't quite  hide, that he's trying to get under my skin here. He's trying to get me  to cow to him and "obey his authority" or whatever ridiculousness.



And I'm not going to give him that. I think of his crude little  pantomime of the girls he brings home, the ones saying "yes, chef" to  him. Well, this is one girl that cocky, arrogant prick is not going to  have wrapped around his little finger. Under no circumstances am I going  to be "yes, chef"-ing him.



"I said I made a mistake, Oliver," I say his name loudly, pointedly not referring to him as chef.



He crosses his arms over his chest, the ink of his forearm tattoos  rippling across his muscles as he flexes, "You made a mistake?"



"Yes, Jesus." This is freaking ridiculous. I am not going to play into  his stupid little power play. I mean I share a wall and a bathroom with  this man at home, I'm just not saying it.



"Yes?" He arches an eyebrow, and I know exactly what he wants, but I'm not saying it. Not this time.



"Whatever," I say, rolling my eyes. "Yes," I say, pointedly dropping the second word he wants to hear. Screw you, prick.



"Get the fuck out of my kitchen."



My eyes dart up to his, "Excuse me?"



His eyes are smirking at me, but when he says it again, his voice is  booming across the silent kitchen. "I said get the FUCK out of my  FUCKING KITCHEN."



I can feel the heat flushing my cheeks, the embarrassment that he's  actually following up on his threat with this. "Are you fucking kid-"



"OUT!"



The kitchen is pin-drop silent, and I feel every eye on me as I tear off my apron and toss it at Oliver's feet. "



Whatever," I hiss, pushing past him and out the door.



*****



In the locker room, I finally let the breath I've been holding inside  out in a rush. The emotional charge of having a man with that sort of  power - asshole stepbrother or not - yelling in my face catches up with  me as the door slams shut behind me, and I'm blinking back tears and  fanning my heated face with my hands as I pace the length of the room  back and forth.



My thoughts are a tangled jumble inside my head as I suck in breaths of  air, trying to center myself. On the one hand, yes, whether I like it or  not, Oliver is my boss, and defying him like that in the way that I did  was never going to end well.



But on the other hand, what an asshole! He made an example of me instead  of just telling me to fuck off like he could've. He decided to cut me  down to size as some sort of power-game in full view of the entire  kitchen staff, just to make a point.



I'm bent over at the sink, splashing cold water on my face when I hear the voice behind me, "It can get a little hot in there."



I jerk my head up and then narrow my eyes as I see Oliver grinning at me in the mirror behind me. "Oh fuck off."



"Hey," he shrugs, "I told you I wasn't going to go easy on you."



"Yeah, well, thanks for the heads up, ass."



I turn and move to push past him, but he grabs my wrist, pulling me  back. I bite my lip and I stop short in my tracks, turning to look up  into his eyes; his icy, dark brown eyes. I can feel a buzz run through  me from the point where his hand touches my wrists, the power in those  hands searing my skin.



"You know," he says, his lips parting in a smug grin, "All you had to do was say ‘yes, chef'."



We're talking about it like he means work, but I can tell just by that  look in his eyes that we're really talking about the subtext here. We're  talking about him being frustrated by the girl that won't say yes to  the man who never hears no. I shake my arm loose of his grasp.



"Well maybe I'm not that easy."



"It wouldn't be fun if you were, luv," he says, winking at me.



I blush and bite my lip, swallowing the dirty daydreams of what could be  and sizzling memories of what was as I meet his stare eye-to-eye, our  faces inches apart.



"I'm not going to play this game with you, you know," I say quietly,  willing myself to not blink; willing myself not to yield an inch in this  little tit-for-tat we're doing here alone in the locker room.



"Oh and what game is that, sweetheart?" he murmurs, that thick accent caressing over my skin and teasing my ears.



"You know what I'm talking about, Oliver."



"Enlighten me."



"You playing this little power-trip of yours because I wouldn't do  certain things before," I say quietly. "You know, before before."



He smirks, "Things?"



"Things like sleep with you."



He drops his jaw in overly-dramatic shock and shakes his head, grinning at me, "Wow!"



I roll my eyes with a huff and whirl to walk away from him. He stops me  with a firm hand on the locker room door, "Look, let's go get a pint and  I can make it up to you."



My brow wrinkles, "Just like that."



"I don't follow."



"You're a raging dick to me and then you want to ‘grab a pint'?"



"Chloe." He rolls his eyes at me, making my blood boil a little, "It's the kitchen, it's not fucking personal."



I tighten my lips, saying nothing in return, and he arches a brow at me.



"Look, you want this life? This is it. This is the game."



I'm silent, just pursing my lips and glaring at him as he holds my gaze.  Finally, he rolls his eyes, "Alright, you know what, fuck it. Forget  about it." He turns and starts to open the locker room door.



Just before he steps out, I finally crack. "Okay, okay," I sigh loudly, "So how far away is this pint?"



He turns, grinning broadly at me as he brings a hand up to rub his chin, "So that's a yes?"



"To the drink? Obviously, it's what I just-"



"No, sweetheart, I mean is that a yes to you sticking around and  learning to thicken that skin when it comes to this craziness we call  professional kitchens?"



I roll my eyes, "Does it get me a drink? Fine, yes."



Oliver grins as he slings an arm over my shoulder and walks me out the  door, "Then hold on tight, luv, the ride's just getting started."





There's just the smallest hint of a wrinkle in Chloe's brow as we step  into the pub. I grin to myself, watching as she quickly and nonchalantly  hides it when she turns to me and shrugs casually, as if this is  exactly the type of place she was expecting to come have a drink at.



The Rusty Knot is the farthest thing from an expected type of drinking  establishment for a girl like Chloe; any girl, actually, and I know it.  But of course, that is precisely why I've brought her here. The place  reeks of stale beer and chips, and cheap cigarettes. Pipe smoke hangs  like a mourning shroud over the mangy assortment of drunks, thieves,  villains, footy hooligans, and of course, cooks.



The floor sticks to your shoes, the clientele is most likely waiting for  you to pass out to nick your wallet, the bartender is a right bruiser  of a geezer, and the beer is flat and warm even by British standards.



This is the last fucking place in the world a girl like Chloe would ever drink anything.



That all said, I fuckin love this shithole. And anyways, we're not  exactly here for me to impress Chloe, we're here because I felt like  testing her.



And I gotta hand it to her, she's passing with that Paul-Newman-cool look she's trying to sell me.



"So what's good here?"



I smirk at her honest question "Nothing," I say with a grin.



She's out of her element in a place like this. Fuck, I'm not quite at  sorts in a hovel like this, but she's playing it cool and she's playing  it with grace.



Which is sort of sexy as fuck.



She's grown up a bit since that time before; she's grown up a lot actually. She looks worldly and more confident.



And hot.



I mean, she looked good before, but it was in this sort of "cute-sexy"  inexperienced way. Now? Now she's like woman hot; she's just plain  fucking sexy. Here's a girl that's just come off working a damn  commercial kitchen line during service. She's been standing in pools of  her own sweat for six hours, in full fight-or-flight mode listening to  the machine print tickets and me yell shit all night.



And she looks fuckin' great. She's in jeans and a t-shirt, she's got her  dark hair pulled back in this basic ponytail, and I feel like there's  no way she's even wearing makeup right now. And yet, somehow, she's  possibly the sexiest fucking thing I've ever seen. Fuck me, she even  smells good. I've always wondered how that was even possible when it  came to girls. Like, a guy is going to smell like a fuckin' jock-strap  after a shift like the one we had. Her? She splashes some water on her  face and puts on a t-shirt and she smells like Goddamn lavender and  sunshine. Like how is that even possible?