That’s what happens when you spend the entire evening critiquing the meal instead of making conversation, Emmeline.
I hold my breath until she speaks.
“He said—”
“You know what?” I cut her off. “Invite Mr. KFC back here. Let him tell me himself.”
She blinks slowly, stunned by the proposition. In the year I’ve spent running this kitchen, I’ve never once invited a patron into my domain.
A general doesn’t allow civilians into a war-zone.
Then again, I’ve also never had anyone send back an exquisite dish three times in a single night.
Desperate times, desperate measures.
He’s in no rush, that much is clear. He makes me wait nearly twenty minutes before he deigns to appear. My pulse pounds a bit faster with each passing moment. I try to focus on my orderly checklist of closing tasks, but my mind whirls in a maelstrom of untempered indignation and wounded pride.
Bland.
Unimaginative.
KFC.
By the time the kitchen doors finally swing wide, announcing his presence, the burners are off, the ovens are cooling, and my staff has switched modes from stir-simmer-serve to scrub-scour-sanitize. Bracing myself, I set down my inventory clipboard and turn to meet the arrogant ass who’s made my night a living hell…
And promptly suck in a sharp breath.
Cock-a-doodle-do-not-lose-your-shit-Emmeline.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. Someone significantly older, maybe. Someone significantly less attractive, definitely. The man standing there is a certified stunner with a crop of thick blond hair and a set of piercing blue eyes. His tailored suit drapes his chiseled frame like it was made for him.
Normally, just the sight of a man like this would be enough to make my mouth water. Normally, seeing such a fine specimen of manhood, when it’s been eighteen months, two weeks, six days, and five hours — give or take a few minutes — since I last had sex with someone other than myself, would be enough to make me strip out of my chef’s jacket and hurl myself at him like a heat-seeking missile.
Normally.
But not tonight. Because, in addition to the fact that I hate this man on principle for insulting my cooking… I already hate him for an entirely different set of reasons. Namely, because I know him. I’ve known him for ten years, since I was no more than an eighteen-year-old kid enrolled in her first-ever cooking class, who thought bouillabaisse was something you might find in The Kama Sutra, not the Joy of Cooking.
Emmett Fox.
Former culinary school nemesis at Le Cordon Bleu, current rival executive chef at La Folie — our biggest competitor in the city. I haven’t seen or spoken to him for eight years, but as soon as our eyes lock, I feel a long-simmering rage begin to bubble to the surface.
“Emmeline,” he purrs, lush lips twisting into a smirk. “It’s been too long.”
“You.” I nearly spit out the word. “I should’ve known.”
“Oh, come on. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
My scowl intensifies. “We aren’t friends.”
“You’re right, Ems. Back in school, you were always far too focused to make time for friendship.” His eyes gleam with amusement. “Guess some things never change.”
“Don’t pretend you know me,” I snap. “And don’t call me Ems.”
“Touchy, touchy.”
“You are aware there are several lethally sharp blades within my reach? Test me at your own peril, Fox.”
He grins as if he finds my rage utterly adorable. “Aren’t you even a little glad to see me?”
“No.”
“So bitter.” He pauses. “Rather like your homemade tomato sauce, if memory serves.”
A squawk of anger flies from my mouth. “My sauce is not bitter!”
“If you’d loosen up those apron strings a bit, it might help — with your demeanor, not the sauce.” He waggles his brows. “A pinch of sugar should do, for that.”
“Forgive me if I don’t take cooking advice from a guy whose ass I whipped all the way through culinary school.”
He snorts. “If that’s how you need to remember it, it’s your choice. And by choice I mean delusion.”
“I see your ego hasn’t diminished since the last time I saw you.”
“And I see your insane need to win every argument is as intact as ever,” he volleys back. “Tell me, Ems, did you ever wonder what things might’ve been like between us, if you’d set aside your competitive drive for one damn minute? Whether it might’ve been… different?”
“Hmmm.” I pretend to think about it for a second. “Nope. I was too busy beating you.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Amazing.”
My brows arch in question.
“So much piss and vinegar in such a petite little package.”
“Get out of my kitchen, Fox.”
“You invited me.”
I scoff. “Consider your invitation rescinded!”
He doesn’t move a single muscle. He just stands there, that infuriating smirk still twisting his lips, cockier than the chicken dish he so rudely rejected. Thrice. His muscular arms are crossed casually over his chest in a way that tells me he’s not the least bit apologetic for his actions tonight. If anything, he’s rather pleased with himself.
I wish that smug self-confidence was enough to mitigate the effects of his chiseled features on every woman in the room. Izzie is shamelessly stealing glances at him as she wipes down her station. Mary is restocking the fridge a bit too slowly, eavesdropping on our every word. Even Tina, who I know for a fact is happily married with four children, looks like she’s about to start drooling on the freshly-washed dishes.
I heave a deep sigh. “Seriously, what are you doing here, Fox? Besides driving me to drink?”
“Call it… competitive curiosity.” His mouth curls in a smile as his eyes sweep around the kitchen. “I couldn’t resist a chance to check out the infamous dragon’s lair.”
Dragon?!
I clench my teeth so hard I worry I’ll snap a crown.
Emmett catches Izzie’s eyes across the kitchen and winks at her. “Tell me, is it true she breathes fire when you displease her?”
Izzie ducks her head to hide a smile but — wisely — chooses not to respond.
“And the true mystery…” His gaze swings back to mine then slides down my frame, taking in my every detail. “How do you fit those scaly wings under such a tight uniform?”
“More insults.” My eyes roll. “How very predictable.”
“I don’t recall insulting you.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Fire-breathing dragon.”
“That was a compliment.” He laughs and his whole stupidly handsome face lights up in the process. “Mostly.”
Izzie’s shoulders shake in silent amusement.
Kevin thinly veils a chortle with a coughing fit.
My scowl returns. “Go away, Fox. It’s been a long night, and I don’t have the energy to play this little game with you.”
“I wasn’t aware we were playing a game.”
“You sent my coq au vin back three times! You had me running around my kitchen like a maniac!”
“Sorry to break it to you, babe — guess I’m just not into coq.”
Several of my staff members giggle helplessly. I’d glare at them, but I’m too busy directing all my rage at the man standing before me.
“Well, that’s just fine, because I won’t be cooking it for you ever again.”
“Even if I beg?”
“Even if you show up on my doorstep dying of scurvy and malnutrition.”
“Scurvy and malnutrition?” His head tilts to the side. “Isn’t that a little redundant, as threats go?”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “Just go away.”
“Why?”
“Because I hate you.”
“Liar.” His eyes hold mine, so blue I can’t look away. “You feel something for me — but it’s definitely not hate. We both know that, Emmeline.”
“You’re delusional.” My heart pounds a bit faster when he says my full name. “And rude. Intolerable. Irredeemable.”
“That all?”
“That’s not enough?”
“Really, what have I done that’s so terrible?” he asks lowly. Heat saturates his stare, overtaking all traces of amusement. “Besides fail to ask you out, ten years ago — which I see now was a terrible oversight on my part.”
I ignore him — and the butterflies that burst to life in my stomach at his words. When I speak, my tone is as arctic as my glare. “Three letters, asshole.”
His sandy brows lift.