Romance Impossible(39)

But at the moment, all I could see was Chef.

It was just a friendly sparring match. That much was clear. Their hands were taped up, but they wore no helmets, the sweat dripping freely from their hair as they circled each other. Just like in the kitchen, Chef Dylan was in constant motion. His heels never seemed to touch the ground. Captivated, I watched him move around the ring with a fluidity that seemed to contradict the tautness of his body. Every muscle was poised for action, waiting, waiting, then SNAP! The action. And then more waiting. His arm would lash out and return so quickly, I felt like I could blink and miss it.

His muscles rippled under his skin, under the sheen of sweat, and I felt something clench deep inside me. He was pure raw power. Even under restraint, like he was now, like he was nearly always, I could see it.

Feral.

His opponent's fist connected lightly with his ribs, and he snarled, actually baring his teeth as he dodged just a split-second too late. The other man was already curling up before Chef had fully regrouped, which only took a moment - protecting himself with his forearms in preparation to block the counter-attack. It came with a fury, still connecting only with the lightest of touches, but with such speed and precision that it was very clear who would win a real fight. I tried to imagine being Chef Dylan's opponent.

A shiver ran through me, from head to toe. It wasn't fear, but it still left the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention.

It felt like I'd been standing there, watching him, for hours. But it must have only been a minute or two. His eyes briefly flicked in my direction, breaking his single-minded concentration for just long enough to notice me.#p#分页标题#e#

He raised his hand to his opponent, in a wordless gesture: stop.

The other man nodded, stepping back and out of the ring. Chef Dylan came towards me until he reached the edge of the ring, leaning on the ropes. He gestured with his head - come here. Little beads of sweat flew from the ends of his hair. Gross, I tried to convince myself. But it wasn't. It really, really wasn't.

My legs felt like jelly as I walked towards him. There was still a hot, tight little knot of anger in the pit of my stomach, but I couldn't quite access it. It was all I could do, really, to stay upright and look him in the eyes. For the love of God, don't show your weakness. Don't let him see what kind of effect he's having on you. It'll ruin everything.

He'd caught his breath by now, but he just pointed wordlessly off to the side of the room. Following with my eyes, I saw a little side-room packed with surplus equipment and a broken, dirty mirror.

"You can change in there," he said. "Then we'll go a few rounds."

The impulse to laugh was strong, but instead, I just choked a little. "Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said." He stepped back, sitting down on a stool in the corner and lifting a water bottle to squirt some into his mouth; he swallowed, then swiped the excess off of his face, ignoring the trickle that ran down the tightly-sculpted muscles of his chest.

But I didn't.

"You're kidding," I said. "I mean, it's obvious that you're kidding, but I don't know what your point is."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" He didn't. He looked like I'm fucking serious personified.

I lifted my lower jaw with an effort. "I've never..."

He snorted. "I'm not going to hit back," he said. "Obviously."

Obviously. My lips were suddenly very dry. I licked them, slowly. "So what's...what's the point, exactly?"

"Does it matter?" He grinned, fiercely. "Employer-employee bonding. Get your frustrations out. A chance to punch your fucking asshole boss without consequences, are you really going to look that gift horse in the mouth?"

"I hate that saying," I said, forcing my wandering eyes back to his face. "If they had looked the horse in the mouth, they would've known better than to let it into the gate, wouldn't they?"

"So much the pity for them," said Chef. "Go change. I know you've got your gym clothes in that bag. You always go after work."

He was right, of course. Those sharp eyes didn't miss much. Under this lighting, they were the most startling shade of slate blue.

"This is ridiculous," I said. Was it? I did want to hit him. Of course. Me and a thousand other people. But why was I getting the chance to actually do it?

I remembered what Beckett had told me about his brother. People always think he's trying to trick them. They ascribe these evil genius motivations to him. But it's really very simple. You've got to take what he says at face value. When he tells you something, believe him.

So what had he said?

A chance to punch your fucking asshole boss without consequences.