Page 8 of Shades of Ruin

She fucking ran. And she stole my goddamn shirt.

Chapter Five

ANGÉLICA

Time has never crawled at such a sluggish, mind-numbing pace. The ticks of the large, art deco clock hung directly in front of me dig their way under my skin, the incessant sound slicing at my sanity with every second until I’m left squirming with anxiety in my chair. My foot taps at twice the rhythm while I smooth an imaginary wrinkle in my white, collared shirt. There aren’t any because I ironed the shit out of it this morning as a means of doing something with all the nervous energy bundled up inside me.

If Mamá were here, she would give me some arequipe with extra cinnamon and tell me, “Al que no le toca, no le toca.” If it’s not meant for me, it won’t happen. I’ve heard this phrase more times than I can count over many long, hard years of trying to make a name for myself in such a competitive industry.

I’ve been cooking for as long as I can remember, learning alongside my mamá and abuela since I was old enough to reach the counter. Our kitchen was always full, the stove always hot, the air always filled with the warm scent of spices. Cooking eventually became more than a comfort—it was an escape when Ineeded something to keep me from self-destructing to the point of oblivion.

Even though I’ve left my country and my roots, I still feel the Colombiana running through my veins. The flavors of my childhood influence everything I cook. The skills my abuela taught me guide me every day in the kitchen. And I see every dish I make as a tribute to her. I was raised in a small, rural village, but I will always be proud of where I come from. And there will always be that little piece of my past in everything I do. I like to think that’s the soul of my cooking.

Back in Colombia, there was very little room for me to grow outside of traditional cooking. And I’ve always known that I needed more than what our small community could offer. After Abuelita died, every sweet thing in my life turned sour, and I found myself looking for anything that would liberate me from the place that used to feel like home. When I was seventeen, I nearly got the chance to escape to Paris and cook with nine other chefs in an unorthodox culinary competition. The day I found out I didn’t make it was the last day I ever allowed myself to cry.

Gavin Greyson was the lucky bastard who walked away from that French competition with the title of sous chef, and now I’m sitting in his office, willing to do anything but beg for him to take a chance on me as his pastry chef. My eyes latch onto that damn clock, and a frown settles between my brows. He’s fifteen minutes late to our interview, and I was twenty minutes early. So I’ve been sitting here for the better part of an hour wondering what it will feel like to be rejected by the man who got everything I ever wanted.

If his lack of consideration for my time is any indication, I’d say those three Michelin stars his restaurant currently holds have gone to his damn head.

Just when I’m about to storm out and ask the pretty woman who showed me to his office what the hell is taking so long, thedoor bursts open. I choke a little when Chef Greyson walks in, and I find myself fighting a blush of embarrassment when I have to clear my throat. The pictures I’ve seen online and in a few prominent magazines have done nothing to prepare me for the fucking awe of having Gavin Greyson two feet in front of me.Santa madre de dios, this man is like a perfect sculpture carved by the hand of God himself.

His entire composition is one of sharpness and contrast, and I’ve never seen such pure symmetry. His jaw is constructed of the sharpest angles, his cheekbones raised high above them, creating a vast hollow between the two. His dark brows are set in an expression that’s somehow fierce and yet entirely indifferent at the same time. And his eyes—fuck, his eyes are the purest pools of crystalline blue. His wavy hair is so dark it’s nearly black, and it hangs low, brushing the top of his cheeks and offsetting his pale skin.

Without a word, he advances on me, and I feel so small in spite of being five foot seven and nowhere near fragile. He’s just so tall, his shoulders broad as a wooden beam with an impressive amount of muscle and strength shrouded beneath his tight, black dress shirt buttoned all the way to his neck. His presence is so overpowering that I feel swallowed up in his dark aura to the point of suffocation. I force myself to breathe, straighten my back, and resist the urge to cower below him.

“What are you doing here?” he demands when he’s finally reached where I’m helplessly seated, his thighs brushing against the edge of the chair.

His sensual voice ripples over my body like a lash of heat from the stove, and I feel my skin prickle beneath the tantalizing caress of it. Even though we’ve never met, my body responds to his voice like I’ve known him my entire life.

I blink up at him as the shock of his nearness slowly starts to fade. “What?” I ask, confused when the oddness of his questionsinks in. “Collette said to wait here for the interview. Should I have gone somewhere else?” I’m praying I haven’t fucked this right from the start.

His bright blue eyes harden with what I can only describe as fury, but I have no explanation for the cause of his sudden anger. Maybe he doesn’t allow visitors in his office, and that girl at the front screwed me over? He studies my face intently before dragging his gaze over the rest of my body with careful assessment. I shift in my seat, feeling like a prime piece of steak being inspected in the middle of a crowded meat market.

Finally, his eyes land on mine once more. “You’reAngelica Flores?” he replies, the words formed like an accusation.

“Ahn-heh-lee-kah,” I correct on instinct, emphasizing the Spanish pronunciation. When I moved to America nine years ago, Mamá made me promise I’d never answer to anything less than the name she gave me, and it’s just become a habit now.

“Fuck I’m terrible with accents,” Chef Greyson mutters under his breath, the sternness in his eyes dimming slightly. “Angélica?” he tries again, the attempt passable but not perfect.

“Close enough,” I retort with a shrug. “You can stick with Flores if that’s easier.”

“Sorry. After so many years spent in France, you’d think I’d be better with languages, but I’m still just as terrible as when I started.” He cracks a slight smile, and something in my stomach flutters at that small crease that forms on the right side of his lips.

He stares at me for a long moment, battling some sort of inner conflict that is beyond my understanding. I breathe easier when the tension in his body fades slightly and he leans back to sit on the edge of the desk. He’s still looming over me, but his intensity has turned less hostile. “So what will you be preparing for me today, Chef Flores?”

Finally, this unusual interview slides into familiar territory once more. Cooking, I can handle. What I can’t handle is wiltingbeneath the searing gaze of his beautiful blue eyes while he looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether to destroy me or devour me. And the kitchen will be far safer than remaining confined in a small room with the most attractive executive chef I’ve ever seen.

I knew there would be a tasting element to this interview—and this is where my skill with pastry really shines. I’ve studied Greyson’s background, and I know his menu is heavily influenced by modern French cuisine and his time spent in Paris. I scoured every French recipe book I could find while looking for the perfect pastry to impress him. I’ve practiced this dessert for weeks, even with fresh cherries being so hard to come by this season. I didn’t stop working with the ingredients and presentation until I knew it was perfect. And it is.

“Cherry clafoutis, chef.”

There’s a flash of something sharp and scorching in his bright eyes, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. “No, no, no. I’ve seen plenty of French cooking in my life. I’m bored of it.” He crosses his arms and stares at me, sizing me up. “I want to see something that’syou.”

“Me?” I ask, thrown by the fact that he’s refusing the dish I’ve spent countless hours preparing. A dish that was tailored to fithimperfectly.

“Yes, you.” There’s a slight reprimand in his voice, like I should have already thought of this beforehand. “If I’m going to allow you into my kitchen, we can’t be strangers to one another. You probably know me well enough already, so teach me about you. Ingredients that you enjoy. Dishes that remind you of home. Colors and techniques that inspire you. Flavors that make you feel.”

His blue eyes are fixed on mine, and I couldn’t escape the imprisonment of his gaze if I tried. Something strange sets my insides squirming at the thought of Gavin Greyson, a renowned,three Michelin star chef being interested in getting to know me. As if by habit, he raises his hand to his jaw and strokes his thumb over his bottom lip. I’m transfixed by the innocent motion that somehow seems sensual when he does it. I try not to think of how those lips might feel against my skin. It’s not my fault that Chicago’s most elite chef happens to be gorgeous as hell.

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