There's a tap, and the door opens.
She walks in and takes a seat, then straightens her spine. Only, she spoils it by suddenly yawning. She clamps her mouth shut, but not fast enough.
It’s been a long day, and we’re only halfway through it.
Her thick blonde hair is piled up under her chef’s skull cap.
She’s wearing her chef jacket, which is stained with splashes of food. It pulls across her ample bosom and flares at her curvy hips. I love that she looks like she samples what she cooks and enjoys it.
She also has a Band-Aid on her finger. Small cuts and burns on our hands are a part of a chef’s life. But for some reason, the thought of her delicate fingers being hurt makes my guts churn.
With the dark circles under her eyes and hollows under her cheekbones, she looks bone tired. A flash of empathy grips me. I shove it aside.
If she wants to make it in this profession, she needs to toughen up. She needs to be able to match the stamina of the best in the field. It’s why I push her so. And challenge her to deliver beyond her best.
“If you’re tired, we can talk tomorrow.” I drag my thumb under my lip.
Instantly, her gaze goes to my mouth. Her pupils dilate. The pulse at the base of her throat flutters.
This chemistry between us is invigorating. It makes me feel alive in the way I felt when I first met her in the nightclub.
As if she’s caught herself staring, she jerks her chin up. She must see the challenge on my face, for anger flickers in her eyes, and she sits up straight.
There she is. My girl. I’m glad my words challenged her to work through her fatigue.
“I’d rather get this over with.” She folds her arms in her lap.
“You make it sound like a trial.”
“Isn’t it?” She juts out her chin.
I hold her green eyes for a few seconds, reading the determination and the discomfort there. I empathize. We need to clear the air between us if we’re to work together.
Even though I’d rather keep my restaurant service going through a power failure than sit across from her and talk about what happened when we last met.
But there’s no escaping it. And I’m not a coward.
“I owe you an apology.”
“For what?” Her eyes flash.
There’s pain in them. And anger.
Which I deserve. “I put an end to things in a way that hurt you. I wasn’t ready for a?—"
“Relationship. Yeah, I know.” She looks away and composes herself. When she looks back at me, her eyes are remote.
“You were very clear that you didn’t want one. It was my fault that I hoped you’d feel the connection between us the way I did.”
I did feel it. But I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I knew, if we slept together, I’d be the one getting attached.
I’d watched too many of my brothers in the Marines nurse broken hearts, and I knew what a lack of focus could cost. I needed to stay sharp, in control, and I wasn’t about to let myself lose that.
So, I forced myself to walk away.
“It’s never too late to say sorry.” I soften my voice to soothe her. It’s an automatic reaction. One I don’t question.
She blinks, clearly taken aback by my apology.
