Page 19 of Christmas Spirit
But, he couldn’tunthinkthe thought, not when Roland was just a couple of feet away across the table and going on about how succulent and unctuous and juicy the meat was, how seductive the wine, as it slipped its silky way down the throat. And he really couldn’tunthinkwhen Roland emitted little gasps and sighs of pleasure. But most of all, Georgie couldn’tunthinkhow Roland would look and sound at the moment of release, not when the man was making those noises, not when the man was as hot as the kitchen at the height of dinner service, not when—
“Don’t you like it?”
“What?”
Georgie didn’t want to look, hereallydidn’t want to look up and meet Roland’s eyes across the table. His cheeks were throbbing with heat, and if he did, Roland would read every single one of those deliciously dirty, and completely weird thoughts, with one glance at his face.
The man’s a dick. He’s bad-tempered and as cold as a freezer stuck at the North Pole. He makes my life hell, and he doesn’t stop everybody else from making it hell, either. I’m only here with him because of circumstances…But wasn’t he also the man who was determined to give him a lift to the station as he’d promised? Who insisted he’d pay for their stay at the hotel, and who was giving him a second chance to prove himself at Pendleton Manor?
Georgie dragged his head up.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fletcher Jones, what did you say? I was thinking about something, and was miles away.”
Please don’t ask me what I was thinking about.
Roland snorted. “I think we can dispense with the Mr. Fletcher Jones. We’re not at work, and circumstances are, let’s say, somewhat unusual.”
“Oh,” Georgie said, his eyes widening. Unusual? That was one way of putting it. “Then, erm, what should I call you? Chef? Like at the Manor?”
“We’re not at the Manor. I think Sir will suffice.”
Roland picked up his glass, his face expressionless as his hand paused at his mouth.
“Sir?”
Roland’s lips lifted in a smile, before breaking into a laugh, as rich and warm as the casserole.
Georgie rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help laughing too.
“I’m not calling you Sir. Not unless you are a Sir. Are you?”
Maybe Roland was serious. The man was haughty enough to be Sir Roland of Fletcher Jones, or whatever Sirs were Sirs of.
But he’s not being haughty and cold and Chief Bastard now, is he?
“No, I don’t have a title. I’m plain Mister. Call me Roland.”
“You want me to call you — Roland?”
Had he ever said Roland’s name out loud? Georgie wasn’t sure. At the Manor, he was always Chef, while in his head Roland was every term of abuse, real or made up, Georgie could think of.
“I hear it’s the latest thing to be addressed by one’s name. I’m not convinced it’ll catch on, though,” Roland said, taking a sip of his wine.
Georgie laughed, and shook his head. The wine. That was why Roland was so mellow. Plus the champagne. It was the only reason Georgie could think of.
“Okay. Roland.” The name slipped from Georgie’s tongue, smooth as butter. “And you can call me Georgie.” It would make a change fromboy, oryou. But that was back at Pendleton, and like Roland said, they weren’t there now.
“Oh, but I already do. And I don’t need to ask permission.” Roland smirked.
No, you don’t call me by my name…But Georgie wasn’t going to quibble. It was the wine and champagne, the warmth, and the good food — which he’d barely touched. It was all about now, and he’d take what was being offered, because when they were back in the kitchen in January, Roland would be Chef, and he’d be the kitchen boy again. The status quo would resume.
“If you don’t like it, I’m sure Nicholas can bring you something else.” Roland nodded to Georgie’s almost untouched plate.
“No, it’s good. And it’s a set menu.” Georgie dived in, his appetite back with a vengeance. “That was great,” he said a few minutes later, his plate clear of everything except a smear of gravy which he really, really wanted to lick from the plate.
Perhaps not a good idea…
“There was a soft sweetness to it. Was it the smoked garlic, do you think?”
