"I was busy!" The tension was crackling in the room, rising higher and higher. I felt like every hair on my body was standing on end. I'd had enough. Enough of walking on eggshells, of being afraid and intimidated all the time.
"Get this straight," he growled, slamming the box down on the counter. "You're never busy when I ask you for something. Never. Do you understand? I ask you to jump while you're in the middle of dismantling a nuclear bloody bomb, you say 'yes, Chef, how high?'"
"Are you trying to piss me off?" I demanded.
He threw his hands up in the air - literally. I wasn't sure I'd ever seen a person do that. "Am I trying to piss you off!" he repeated. "Am I trying...fucking hell, Jillian, I really thought you were smarter than that. Where would that get me? To piss you off? What do I accomplish by making you angry? I'm trying to get your attention. I'm trying to teach you how to reach your potential. Fuck's sake."
Chef was breathing hard, but his eyes softened as he said this. I swallowed hard, my hands clenched into fists by my sides.
"No offense, Chef," I said, holding my venom back as much as I could. "But I've worked in plenty of kitchens. I've been put through the ringer so many times, you don't even begin to scare me. If you want to try and break me, like one of your students on TV, go ahead. But I won't roll over for it. Not like you're used to."
He just stared at me. For the first few seconds, I was sure it was simply the calm before the storm. But then, all he did was slowly raise his hand to his mouth, resting the side of his thumb against his lips.
For another few minutes, he just stared, and I stared back. My heart was thumping like it might leap out of my chest, but my gaze didn't waver.
And then, he just went back to his cooking.
What the hell just happened?
***
The following week, I made the mistake of mentioning to Shelly that I was going to be running through the menu alone, a few hours before Chef Dylan got in. She immediately insisted on stopping by, and wouldn't take "no" for an answer.
After everything that had happened between us recently, the last thing I wanted was for Chef to see me palling around with my best friend in his kitchen. But as long as I could push her out the door in plenty of time, it seemed like a minimal risk. And having someone to talk to would make the prep work a lot less tedious.
"So," she said, leaning on the prep table with a conspiratorial smile on her face. "Are the rumors true?"
I sighed. "Which ones?"
"You know. Chef Dylan, the heartbreaker. Didn't he once have a fight with the hostess that he was fucking, in front of the customers? And it was so bad the restaurant eventually closed?"
"That was a coincidence," I insisted. "The restaurant closing, I mean. If anything, a scene like that would make people more likely to come."
"True," Shelley conceded. "I'd basically go there every night just hoping for a repeat performance. But really, I'm curious! You must have picked up something, working right next to the guy."
"We don't exactly discuss his love life," I said. "And if you're asking me about right now, well, no - he seems pretty single to me. But maybe he's just private about it."#p#分页标题#e#
She was pouting. "You're no fun. I want you to find out some juicy stuff for me, okay? That's an order."
"Sure, I'll get right on that." I rolled my eyes. "You want to hand me that bowl?"
"I thought I wasn't supposed to be here."
"You're not, but if you're going to hang out, I'm putting you to work."
"Fair enough." She did as I asked. "But seriously, come on - you see his appeal, right?"
I shrugged. There was no sense in getting into a whole thing about it. What use was there in confessing that the smell of his cologne made my mouth water, or that I sometimes stalled around his office in hopes of seeing him changing into his coat? He never wore a shirt underneath, and he was completely unselfconscious about it. Not that he had anything to be self-conscious about.
"I mean, just on paper," Shelly went on, "he's a celebrity, he's a chef, he's rich as hell, and he's an athlete in his spare time. Have you seen the pictures of him at the triathlon? Holy shit, I almost died."
"No," I lied. "I don't really go looking for that kind of stuff."
I mean, who on earth would want to see pictures of a guy like that, wearing tight athletic gear, all his muscles straining, covered in sweat and mud? Basically just doing the manliest things on the planet?
How silly.
"I don't buy it," said Shelly, with a dismissive gesture. "You're just in denial. I mean, isn't there any part of you, like deep, deep down inside, buried under all the hate, where you just wanna sit on his f-"