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Chapter Two
Jennifer
There were only three of us left in the kitchen. The cooks, the waiters, and the maintenance crew had all gone home for the evening. There was just me, Dill and the handsome stranger in a suit.
“What’s going on, Dill?” I looked over at the tall, brown-haired man whose dazzling blue eyes seemed to pierce me to my soul. “Why did you make me wait until closing time and why is he back here?”
Dill snickered, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
“This is Marshall. And you should know why he’s here. Apparently, the two of you have made some kind of wager.”
I turned a frown on Marshall. His strong jaw and stoic expression just oozed confidence. He was ten, maybe fifteen years older than me, but somehow looked more masculine than most of my peers. I couldn’t meet his gaze for long without feeling a shiver tremble down my spine and I totally hated the fact that he made me feel this way.
“I guess that we did.” I cocked my head to the side. “But I’m not sure what he’s doing here.”
“I’m here to answer your challenge.” His voice was deep as the ocean. That blue-eyed gaze dazzled me in spite of myself. “You said that you bet I couldn’t do manual labor. I’m here to prove you wrong.”
“Prove me wrong?” I looked him in the eyes, trying to pretend he wasn’t handsome. Or had huge warts on his nose. It didn’t help. “I’m looking at the skin on your hands there, Marshall.”
“What about my hands?” he looked at his hands and frowned. “Do I have something on them?”
“Yeah, a whole lot of hubris.”
Dill’s mouth dropped open. I’m sure he didn’t know what hubris meant, but he probably knew from my tone it was an insult.
“Jenny, you can’t talk to Mr. Lane like that,” he huffed. I saw the glint of fear in his eyes. “It’s not proper.”
I rolled my eyes. Just because the guy was an uppity customer who bitched about a dirty glass didn’t make him King of the Kitchen.
“Yeah, yeah, anyway, back to your hands.” My brows climbed high on my face. “They’re much too pretty for dishwashing. I’d say that you had a maid and a butler and never even had to wipe your own…”
“Jenny!” Dill snapped. His ruddy face glistened with nervous sweat. “Watch it.”
“He’s already pissed about the stupid spot on his glass,” I growled. “Who cares if he hears me curse? And I stand by what I said. No way has this guy done an honest day’s work in his entire life.”
This whole betting thing started to annoy me. Typical man, turning it into a pissing contest. I hadn’t even been serious about it when I’d said it. I mean, what did I bet on, a porterhouse?
“Oh, haven’t I?” His voice was still the epitome of calm. I got the feeling I could prick him with a needle and he wouldn’t so much as flinch.
“No, you haven’t.” I turned to the huge pile of dishes. “Okay, MISTER Lane, take a gander at the yon metropolis of dirty dishes.”
“I see it.” He shrugged as he regarded all of those messy plates, some of them with crud dried onto them. “Although, I would hesitate to call this a metropolis of dirty dishes. More like a small hamlet. I’ve seen some metropolises in my day.”
Then he turned to me and smirked, as if totally unimpressed with a monumental amount of work.
“Oh, is that so?” I put my hand on my hip as I glared at him.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is so.”
“Pretty confident, aren’t you?” I tugged at my collar, to release the heat. The kitchen was still so damn hot. Or maybe it was him. “Or should I say arrogant?”
“Ah, I’ve been called arrogant before, many times.” His brows arched ever so slightly. “But, I must say that you’re only arrogant when confidence is married to incompetence. I am far from incompetent, therefore I’m not arrogant.”
It looked like neither of us was willing to give an inch of ground.
“Listen here, you puffed up—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Dill said, cutting me off mid-sentence. He turned a terrified glance my way, then plastered on a smile as he faced Marshall. Or should I say Mr. Lane. “Let’s not start slinging mud here.”
