Page 23 of Ours to Lose
Gabe
Any time
Chapter Four
Aubrey
March
Ten seconds.That was how long I’d allow for self-pity before I dragged my forehead off the counter and resanitized the kitchen. You’d think the concept of a wipe-down rag and a sanitizing rag wouldn’t be difficult for a grown chef to manage, but it sure had been for the chef who’d just finished his trial shift.
He was not getting the job.
And not merely because after three detailed explanations, including a visual demonstration, he’d continued to dunk the dirty wipe-down rag into the sanitizing solution until it was filthier than the counters it was supposed to be cleaning. It was because every other task I’d asked him to do throughout the day had gone the same.
I wasn’t looking to hire perfection. I was more than willing to train someone still a bit green. I didn’t even care if they’d gone to culinary school. But I couldn’t have someone on my team who couldn’t follow basic instructions. That was the bare minimum.
Twelve interviews in two months, and no prospective chef had hit it.
Which meant I’d be working tomorrow’s event alone. Again.
Six events Arden Catering had done since New Year’s, and all but one of them I’d worked by myself. The exception had been the first and only time I’d conducted a trial shift at the event instead of during prep the day before—a mistake I’d quickly learned from.
But the longer I went without a team, the longer Arden Catering would go without turning a profit. Three events a month wasn’t enough to cover overhead now that we were renting a separate prep kitchen, and I wasn’t willing to risk taking on much more on my own. Not when establishing a strong reputation was Jillian’s top concern.
She didn’t care about the money yet. Especially with how well the restaurant was doing. First and foremost, this catering operation’s mission was to amplify the impression Ardena had made, which meant doing things right.
But we couldn’t go on not making money forever. I refused for Arden Catering to become a burden for Ardena to carry. So if I had to suffer through a thousand more failed interviews, that was what I’d do.
Ugh.
I hauled myself to standing and filled a new sanitizing bucket while I tried to decide which was worse: hiring staff or my attempt at finding a hookup the other night. Another first and only to add to the list.
The going-out part hadn’t been bad. I loved going to clubs, dancing and singing in a sway of bodies until my voice was hoarse and my feet were ready to fall off. I usually went with Evan, who kept an eye I was safe while finding his own dance partner to take home at the end of the night. Or sometimes I tagged along with Zach at a gay club where our tattooed, dancing duo would sweat through our clothes and laugh as hard as we sang.
This time had been different. I’d been on a mission: get laid.
Much as Evan tried, he didn’t really work as my wingman. Guys either assumed we were together or secretly in love because apparently the concept of male-female platonic friendship was as baffling to some as a sanitation rag. That or the guys would get hypercompetitive with him in a macho, walking-red-flag kind of way, which was helpful to weed out in the long run but didn’t solve my current problem of being very, very horny.
Like clockwork, another flashback to Gabe’s New Year’s kiss gripped me as fiercely as he had my waist. The warm heat of his body pinning mine to the wall, the round muscles of his shoulders and biceps flexing under my palms, our mouths locked in a perfect rhythm my hips had no choice but to chase.
“Did it meet expectations?”
Ha.
It had been good, all right. More like better than any kiss I’d had, ever. It didn’t help I’d dreamed about kissing Gabe since I was nine.
Except the Gabe of my teenage dreams had kissed me like I was sweet and innocent, a fragile thing to be careful with.
Gabe in real life had kissed me like he wanted to ravage me. Like it took everything in him not to rip off my clothes and fuck me over the counter.
Heat rushed between my legs as the image of him fucking me overthiscounter filled my head, and I squeezed my thighs together, swallowing a moan of frustration as I scrubbed the prep table harder.
This was the problem. This constantacheI couldn’t get rid of, no matter how many times I wore out the battery on my vibrator.
It used to be I’d power the thing up once a week and be set. Now, I was whipping it out morning and night and still had the urge to slip into the bathroom at work to rub one out.
I was going crazy with horniness. Craving the experience of being with another person that a vibrator could never give. The skin-on-skin, feeding off each other’s arousal, having the weight of their body on you, hearing them groan kind of experience. The sensory high of it all.
