I know she’s expecting it. Every time I turn toward her, every time I open my mouth to speak, she gets this look. Half fear, half anticipation. Like she’s bracing herself. Like she knows the conversation is coming and dreads it.
I lean back in my swivel chair. I’m in my office, a short hallway from the main kitchen.
It’s the lull between lunch and dinner service. I’m using the time to catch up on vendor contracts and other tasks that need my attention which I’ve been putting off.
The rational part of me knows I should just call her into my office and get it over with.
The other part, the one I’m less proud of, has been enjoying watching her wait.
It’s sadistic. I know.
But there's something darkly satisfying about the way her body betrays her when I approach. The leap of fear in her eyes. The pulsejumping at the base of her throat, visible and frantic. The slight tension in her shoulders as she prepares for whatever I'm about to say.
And then, when I ask about something related to the food instead, she deflates. Relief floods her features, before she catches herself and schools them back to neutral.
She can't anticipate me. Can't predict what I'm going to say or when I'm going to say it.
Something about Harper ignites this feral side in me. I love absorbing her every reaction. Relish how she’s actively trying to please me. How she pushes herself to meet my standards. She works hard to deliver on my expectations. And when I criticize her, she deflates, only to light up at my praise. Her responsiveness is irresistible.
I thrive on her every reaction.
Each time I challenge her, she juts out her little chin, and her eyes flash with anger. She’s passionate, defiant, and stubborn enough to not give up until she’s delivered on my request, no matter how outrageous it is.
The combination tugs at a part of me that’s been dormant for too long.
It makes me want to provoke her and reward her. It makes me want to protect her. Control her.
I like to rile her up. I enjoy seeing her purse her lips and frown so that cute furrow appears between her eyebrows.
I like her flustered. But I love it when she recovers. When that backbone snaps into place and she stands her ground. That’s when I get rock hard.
When she blooms under my praise, it challenges me to not stop until she submits to me.
It makes me want to make her mine.
Even thinking about it drains the blood to my groin. Thankfully, my desk covers it.
I've spent my life controlling my emotions. Every reaction measured. Every response calculated. Every feeling locked down so tightly, I sometimes forget it's there.
But this?
Watching Harper Richie get frazzled because of me?
I thrive on it.
Which means, I need to have this conversation before I become the kind of man who weaponizes anticipation just to see someone's pulse spike.
Sadly, even for me, I can’t delay the inevitable further. So, I pick up the phone and call the kitchen. I tell the line chef who picks up to send Harper to my office.
As I wait for her, I look around my office.
Most chef’s offices have a reputation for being cluttered cubby holes. But I refused to compromise. I’ve managed to carve out a space bigger than the norm.
There are no paintings on the walls.
The surface of my dark wood desk carries no photos. It’s clean, but for a laptop and a yellow legal pad beside it.
It’s austere, but that’s how I like it.
