Page 74 of Boss of the Year
Friend.
But cooks weren’t friends with their clients.
A personal chef who spent hours every day creating masterpieces for a family that ate two or three bites, downed a bottle of wine, and left their plates for me to clean up after, was not their friend.
Lucas is different, a small voice told me.
He showed me this truth daily.
He’d polished off every bite I’d made for him.
He hadn’t consumed a drop of alcohol.
He complimented every dish I had created, made polite requests when he wanted something different, and even took his dishes to the sink though I’d told him several times it was my job.
“I…” I swallowed hard. “Okay, sure. I could probably be your plus one, although, as you know, it’s a little out of my wheelhouse. I can’t guarantee I won’t have a panic attack in the restroom.”
Lucas chuckled. “You did say you wanted to experience something new.”
“So I did. All right.”
Relief skipped across his features, followed by a quick smile that lit up his sharp features so quickly I almost missed it.
Almost.
“Great. Although—damn—you’ll have to cancel your beach trip. I’m sorry for that.”
The thing was, I believed him.
“I’ll make it up to you in Japan, I promise.”
I shrugged. “Fine, sure.”
“Robbie can help you find whatever you need to get ready—hair, clothes, whatever. These events are…” He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Quite formal. He’ll know what’s needed.”
I nodded, already mentally cataloging the limited wardrobe I’d brought with me. “Okay, yeah. I’ll figure something out.”
Lucas opened his mouth as if to say something, then seemed to hesitate. He cleared his throat, his eyes skimming over my body once more before looking away.
“It’s on me, of course. And maybe find something not quite so…” He trailed off, and his hands grabbed the edge of the counter hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “Pretty. Otherwise, I’ll be a bit distracted.”
Just like that, I was pressed against the fridge again. This time, in my imagination, he didn’t move, and his mouth floated down my neck before finding mine.
“Oh—okay. I’ll try to find something inconspicuous.”
At that, something shifted in his expression. The combination of heat and fear was replaced with a different emotion—something angry, simmering under the surface.
“You know what? Ignore that.” His voice dropped to a low growl I felt in my bones. “Wear whatever the fuck you want, Marie. We’ll all be lucky bastards to see it.”
On that note, he took his empty bowl to the sink, then grabbed his lunch and made for the exit.
“We leave at six.”
The door swung shut behind him.
I sank onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, my legs unsteady. What, exactly, had just happened? One moment, I was making the man coffee, the next I was invited on a date?
Was it a date? Or was it just an extension of my job?
