“I took care of him,” she said dryly. That was the point, right? She took care of all problems cocky males presented her with. That was how she could stay chef.
Yeah, it would be nice if it was all about the food, the way she’d imagined as a kid, but she’d learned long before she finished her first apprenticeship that it was mostly about surviving in a world of sexist assholes.
“Stabbed him?” her burglar asked hopefully.
“I brought one of the pallets of milk down on his head when he pushed me back against the shelves. Mild concussion.”
He weighed that a moment. “Much of a struggle before you managed to bring the milk down on his head?”
Maybe. She lifted her chin at him and braced her feet. Even if there was a struggle, I still won.
“Yeah, you know what? I think I’ll still pay him a little visit. Don’t worry, I can find his address on my own.”
“I don’t need a hero,” she said dryly.
He raised his eyebrows. “How do you know? It sounds like you’ve never had one.”
Chapter 3
“Okay,” Chase said, getting down to business. “Let’s get this done so I can take you out for drinks and get you out of those leather pants.”
“I’m still holding a knife,” Violette Lenoir pointed out dryly.
“Because they look uncomfortable! Come on. Admit you would rather be in pajamas right now.”
“Not for a motorcycle ride through rainy streets at midnight.”
“Good God.” Chase had to put a hand to his heart to calm it down. “You have a motorcycle, too? Is it by any chance a Harley?”
“A Ducati.”
He considered. There was no help for it. He was going to have to make a sacrifice. “I’ll do all the ironing.”
She raised her eyebrows.
Fine. Fine. “And the dishes five days a week.”
“Am I supposed to be coming home from my eighteen-hour days as a top chef to make my man a steak in this scenario?” she asked ironically.
He snorted. “I’ll make the steaks, thank you. I’ve seen what you people do to meat.”
Her jaw dropped. Pure outrage blazed so high in her eyes it pretty much grabbed his dick and tried to yank him right over to her by it. Damn, that was a hot look on her. “You think I don’t know how to make a steak?”
“You probably cut it into tiny spirals and make some commentary on Plato with it. Serve it on this much potatoes”—he held up thumb and forefinger in a stingy circle—“that you mix with, God knows, celery root or something. Beets. Who the hell knows?”
She was so mad he was going to have to kiss her in half a second or totally lose his mind. She ran that knife up and down that sharpener, the sound singing dangerously through the air.
“I’ll make the steaks,” he said firmly.
She slammed the knife down on the nearest cutting board. Ouch. She could take a man’s arm off with that kind of cleaving action. “You like to live dangerously,” she said.
“I know,” he said woefully. He patted his heart with his hand. “I’m sorry,” he told it bravely. “I’ll try not to let her break you.” He gave the Blonde in Leather his puppy look, this time channeling wistful courage. “Be gentle with it,” he whispered. “It’s not as tough as I look.”
She rolled her eyes.
He grinned. “Grandma is going to love you.”
“I’m going to call the cops now,” she said firmly.
There was so much to be said for a woman who thought about stabbing him, hitting him on the head, and dismembering him before she remembered she could depend on someone else to handle her problems. “Now, Ms. Lenoir, why break your record by calling for help now?”
She winced. “It’s Lenoir.” Something different and a hell of a lot sexier happened to the R and the vowels when she said it.
Those damn French classes. “How about I call you Vi? Your last name is going to change anyway.”
“I put a lot of effort into my name. So no, I’m not giving it up to some cocky idiot who thinks his own identity is inherently more important than mine, just because he’s a man.”
A beautiful idea hit him. “I could be Lenoir. That’s much more exciting than Smith. I think my grandma would be okay with it. She didn’t really have much choice about the name change back in her day, but she always thought Smith was boring.” Well, she definitely would have, if Smith was her real last name.
Violette Lenoir sighed heavily. “Are you some kind of manifestation of my worst nightmare?”
“Hey.” That hurt. “You’re straight out of my dreams.”
“You know I crush a hundred men just like you on a daily basis?”
Okay, not that he wanted to destroy her self-confidence or anything, but…seriously? “I’m pretty sure you don’t, honey. Just because they pretend to be me in video games doesn’t mean they’re actually like me.”
Just for a second, a flicker of genuine caution showed in her eyes, and her left hand scooped up another throwing knife. Aww, and they’d been getting along so well. He backpedaled. “But don’t worry, sweetheart. I may not be crushable, but you’re safe with me.”
“You’re not. Safe with me.”
He sighed with delight. “I know.”