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With that, Brock straightened and walked over to join me. Troy still didn’t budge.
Brock opened the side door for me and I entered Rouge Bis. I still had paperwork to sign before I started, and he led me down a back hallway, past the kitchen.
“Aren’t you going to ask where the cabin is? What’s that kit Troy was talking about?” he asked
“How do you know I don’t already know?”
A small smile tugged at his flawless face. “Because I know your husband, and he is very good at keeping secrets. Especially from you.”
True, Troy hid stuff from me. Mainly, he hid the reason why we got married in the first place. I knew that. And then there was Rowan…the thought of him made my spine stiffen.
I rolled my eyes, feigning boredom. “No thanks. I’m perfectly fine staying in the dark with this one. You guys can break the law as much as you like. No need to keep me in the loop.”
“That’s not what I do.” He stopped in front of a glass door. Behind it, I noticed a gray brick wall, trendy office desk, several paintings and leather chairs. “I never break the law.”
“But you break your promises,” I challenged, not sure where all this strength came from. Maybe I was sick of being pushed around by his boss. “You said it’d be worth my while to go to Miami. It sucked.”
“What I meant is I’d cheer you up when you got back. Sorry it didn’t work out for you, sweetheart.”
“Don’t sweetheart me.” I spun, marching into his office. I took a seat on the chair opposite from where he was supposed to sit. “Let’s just get it over with.”
Since I arrived a trillion years earlier than I should have for the dinner service, I was also the first to greet Pierre in the kitchen. The short, fat man walked in with a sneer on his face, smoothing his thick, black moustache with his finger. I jumped up on my feet from a milk crate I was sitting on and flashed him an enthusiastic smile.
“Hi!” I chirped.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Nepotism. I thought you weren’t supposed to start until next week.” He made his way to the large stove, leaning against it and folding his arms as he somehow defied physics and, despite being even shorter than my humble 5'3", still looked down at me.
Cringing inwardly, I wiped off my smile. “I’m ready to work hard and to prove I’m not only here because of my husband.”
“No,” he agreed, pushing off from the stove and walking over to me. “You’re also here because of Greystone. He instructed me to let you pick a station. So you think you can rule my kitchen, do you?”
I wrinkled my forehead and took a step back. If Brock told him to give me my pick, it was all on him. I knew Troy would never offer me the easy way out. It was not his style. He was more the let-her-work-for-it type of guy. Brock, however, was the sweet let-me-help-you-out gentleman. The perfect man to bring home to mom. If I had one, that is.
“Station me wherever you want.” I raised my chin. “I’m not scared of hard work, chef.”
Pierre took a step toward me and smiled into my face, his breath reeking of cigarettes. “We’ll see about that.”
I gutted, scaled and cleaned dozens of fish, cutting myself several time with the thin-bladed boning knife just to keep up with all the work Pierre gave me. By the time my shift was done, I looked like I had just played rock-paper-scissors with Edward Scissorhands. Thoroughly bruised and cut, I helped cleaning up the kitchen, even scrubbed up the stove.
I got out of the place at eleven, and started walking the distance from Rouge Bis back to the penthouse. It wasn’t close, but the trip back home was on crowded, main streets and I needed the time to think. I wrapped myself into my navy fleece hoodie—this was the coldest June to be recorded in Boston for the last fifty years, perfectly orchestrated with the breakdown of my personal life—swung my backpack over my shoulder and started for Brennan’s building. My legs shook from exhaustion as I passed by the expensive stores and galleries, and I dug my hands into my pockets to brave the weird summer chill. Picking up the pace, I rounded the corner and immediately halted when I saw him.
He smiled at me and offered me his hand. I took it, despite knowing that I smelled like fish. Despite knowing that it was monumentally wrong. Despite knowing that by taking his hand, I was cooking up a disaster.
“How was your first day at work?”
“Brock.” I swallowed. What was he doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be at home with his family, or at the cabin with my husband? Or anywhere else for that matter. We weren’t friends. I was mean to him. He wasn’t supposed to care.
