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Julian
My concentration is shot.After finding out Piper is in my nutrition class, she's all I can focus on. The way her gorgeous waves cascaded over her shoulder. How she played with the ends of her hair most of class, twisting them around her finger. It made me want to run my fingers through her long locks, wrap them around my hand, and pull as I thrust inside her.
The moment that thought crossed my mind, I realized how screwed I was.
It should have been when she plopped down in her seat and my body responded to her proximity. I didn't even need to turn my head to know who was sitting next to me. I felt her first, then I smelled her.
Sunshine.
That's the only way to describe it. It's the way I imagine it would smell if you were standing in a field of wildflowers as the sun rises over the horizon. The morning dew warming on the petals.
It's intoxicating.
I inhaled her scent as she pulled her things from her bag. Leaned toward her before I could stop myself. Took a deep, calming breath, closing my eyes.
The dude sitting in front of us must have heard me because I heard the auditorium chair creak, and when I opened my eyes, he was looking over his shoulder. His eyebrow lifted as we made eye contact, but all I had to offer him was a shrug.
Because I didn't understand why I'd done that any more than he did.
"Julian James!" My mother’s voice cuts through my thoughts as the back door slams behind me. "You're late."
Glancing at my watch, I roll my eyes to the ceiling, saying a prayer that ninety seconds isn't going to screw my entire night over. I'm exhausted from sitting in a chair all day. I'm ready to move around, to get my ass kicked. There's nothing quite like sweating it out in a kitchen to get your blood pumping.
And the high from hearing how happy the customers are makes every second worth it.
Rounding the corner to my parents’ office, I lean against the open door and wait for her to acknowledge my presence. Her reading glasses are perched on the end of her nose, her finger scanning what appears to be an invoice.
"You better have a good excuse. You know I expect you here on time. And on time is what?"
"Early," I state, already prepared for the question.
My mom's version of on-time is showing up fifteen minutes before the start of the shift. So technically, in her eyes, I'm sixteen and a half minutes late. I would argue with her, but there's no point.
"You set the example for everyone. We hold you to a higher standard so you can hold them to a higher standard."
"I know, Ma. I'm sorry. We're going to have to change my schedule for Mondays and Wednesdays. My classes get out later than I thought, and I have to run across campus to get to my car."
It's not an excuse. I parked close to my nutrition class this morning, not wanting to walk any further than I had to since I was dragging ass a little. But that also meant I parked in the furthest lot away from my last class. It took me twenty minutes to get to my car, and I practically ran the entire way. I was home for all of five seconds to change my clothes and out the door again.
"Consider your schedule adjusted," she states, never looking up at me. I assume I'm excused when her voice stops me in my tracks. "Your intern will be here in an hour."
Damn it!
For a few hours today, I forgot all about the new girl starting. Forgot I had even more added stress this semester. That someone else is counting on me.
Why can't my parents see that I have my own shit to worry about?
Or maybe they can see that and just don't care.
"I've printed copies of all the recipes for her. They're on the desk in your office. You'll want to grab her a chef coat, so she doesn't get dirty. She's petite. You'll probably need an extra-small."
I guarantee we don't have anything smaller than a medium. Which means I'm going to have to order her a coat tomorrow. So hopefully she doesn't wear something she's incredibly attached to today in case she's messy.
"I'll order one," I state, turning and walking away. My mom hollers something after me, but I know better than to continue our conversation with as sour as my mood has turned. I'll end up saying something I don't mean, she'll cry, I'll instantly regret my words and end up feeling like a shitty son for the rest of the day.
I'm attempting to light the grill when I hear her laugh. My hand freezes with the lighter only halfway to the pilot as my mind tries to come to terms with why I would be hearing her laugh right now. The restaurant doesn't open for another hour. There's no reason she would be here unless—
"Julian, dear, there you are."
