It's just hitting me that I'm just standing there naked except for a towel in the bathroom like a creep while my stepbrother showers, when the shower door suddenly bangs open.
"Oliver!" I whirl back around as he steps naked and dripping wet out from under the water, but of course, again not before I catch a peek of something I really shouldn't.
I can hear him laughing behind me, "What?
"You're fucking ridiculous, you know that?"
He chuckles. "Hey, it's close quarters in the kitchen, better get used to it, sis."
"Stop calling me that," I hiss out of gritted teeth. "And you aren't-" I shake my head as images of Oliver's impressive package that I just got an eyeful of go racing through my mind; "You aren't naked in the kitchen."
He snorts. "Well, not that you've seen." His arm reaches past me, making me bite my lip knowing he's naked and standing right behind me as he grabs a towel from the rack on the wall in front of me, "Yet."
I whirl back at the feel of his voice right in my ear to shoot him a look as he wraps the towel around himself. "What?" He's grinning at me, "Luv, there are sausages in kitchens all over Britain, you know."
He winks, "English breakfast, and all that."
"Are you done acting like a fucking caveman?" I spit at him.
He makes a show of stepping back and bowing with a wave of his hand towards the still-running shower, "M'lady's bath awaits her."
I glare at him. "Out, Oliver."
He grins as he steps out of the bathroom, towel tight around the grooved muscles of his hips. "Don't be late, cupcake girl."
I'm seething as I slam the door shut behind him and let out a breath before I sling my towel up over the hook and step into the spray of the shower. I've barely allowed myself to close my eyes when the bathroom door bangs open again and I let out a yell as I turn away from the glass, "Oliver! You can not be serious!"
"Oh, relax," I hear him chuckle, "Just hanging up my towel."
I'm trying not to think about the fact that I'm sure he can and is looking at my very naked ass with my back to him like this when I finally hear the door click shut.
Finally.
I'm reaching for the shampoo when I about jump out of my skin at the sound of a tap on the glass. And it's when I whirl around out of pure instinct at the sound that I come face-to-face with a very naked Oliver with his cock pressed right up against the glass between us.
"GET OUT!" I shriek at him, but he's already cracking up and turning away
"See you at work!" He calls back over his shoulder as he slips out the door.
I am not going to survive London.
I'm sipping espresso, leaning over one of the prep tables and going over tonight's menu when she comes in.
Finally.
I think about chewing her out for being late, but - eh - I've gotta pace myself. I mean I can't go all in at once with toppling little miss perfect now can I? After all, I've got four Goddamn months of this little walking distraction in my kitchen; no point in blowing my load on week one, right?
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."