Page 40 of Long Shot

“It’s pretty easy. Control freak.”

“Shit,” I murmur. “You know what buttons to push.”

“I didn’t do this to make you crazy. I swear.”

I sigh. “I believe you.” I move back, still holding her arms, and give her a searching look. Then I ease her back toward the chair and down into it. “Sit.”

“Yes, sir.”

My lips twitch. “That’s much better.”

Her own mouth purses up as if trying not to smile.

I lean my ass against the edge of the desk. “I promised Beck and Marco I wouldn’t fire you.”

“Iknewyou wanted to.”

“It crossed my mind. Okay, tell me what’s going on. Why did you do that?”

“I told you . . . Sid needed help—”

“No.” I cut her off and her mouth snaps shut. “I mean, what are you hiding, Reese?”

She eyes me balefully for a moment. Then her gaze slides away. “It’s not anything that would affect my employment here. I do have a lot of experience working in restaurants. Only, not as a waitress.” She meets my eyes again. “I’m a chef.”

I nod. Of course she is. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I don’t want to work as a chef anymore. I needed a change. Less . . . responsibility. I just wanted to be a waitress. For a while, at least,” she finishes, dropping her gaze and plucking at a speck of lint on her dress.

“You were a chef at those high-end New York restaurants you mentioned?”

“Yes.” She lifts her chin again. “I was the chef de cuisine at my last position.”

“Huh.” I rub my jaw. I feel like there’s more to this story, but she’s closed up tighter than a fish’s ass. She said she wanted a change. I’ll accept that . . . for now. “Obviously you want to cook.”

She bows her head again. “I do kind of miss it.”

“You seem to be pretty good at it.”

Now her chin lifts again. “I won the Rising Star award in New York last year.”

“Okay.” That means nothing to me, but sounds impressive. And she seems proud of it. “So you’re a star chef.”

One corner of her mouth hitches up. “Rising star. But yes.”

I admire that. She’s not bragging. But she’s not downplaying her success, either, with false modesty. “We have an award-winning chef working at Conquistadors,” I say musingly.

“Ha. As a waitress.”

I stroke my jaw again, wheels turning in my head. “Okay. We’ll make you a chef.” I wince inwardly. Probably should have consulted with my business partners before throwing that out there. Although Beck did say to promote her.

Her jaw goes slack. “Um. No. Thanks.” She jumps up again, almost close enough to touch him. Now her eyes flicker all over the place and she nearly vibrates.

“What? Why?”

She’s halfway to the door, but pauses and turns. “I told you. I don’t want to be a chef right now. I need . . . a break from it. That’s why I’m here.” She cocks her head. “Do I still have a waitress job?”

“Fuck, yeah.” He frowns.

---