Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
But will it? Now that I’ve rejected him?
I’d never even thought about Solomon that way, and until last week I had no idea that he thought of me like that. No matter what he says, it was inappropriate. My skin is still crawling from his hand on my ass.
Is Solomon the kind of man to recognize that he was wrong and give me the promotion that he promised me? Can he put aside the fact that I am not going to sleep with him?
Dread pools in my stomach.
No. No, he is not the kind of man.
A resounding crash comes from the kitchen, and all three of us sprint for the door without a second thought. The kitchen is in absolute chaos, a whole platter of food is on the floor, and Solomon’s face is so red that he looks like he might pass out. I hear him screaming as I run through the door.
“You.” He points at me, screaming so loudly that I have no doubt that the patrons can hear it. “You bitch, you did this on purpose.”
I freeze in place, unable to figure out what the hell I’ve done. The whole kitchen feels like it’s locked in a moment in time, everyone holding their breath to see what will happen.
My mouth is dry, but I meet Solomon’s gaze, the rage that I see there is terrifying. “What did I do?”
“You know that this is the signature dish in the restaurant. My signature dish. And you decided to ruin it—and my reputation—by putting the wrong sauce on the entrée?”
My eyebrows raise into my hairline. “I left the kitchen before the sauce was put on the entrée, Solomon.”
“Even if you didn’t put it on, you made it.”
Blood rushes to my face, and I know I must look as red as the sauce that is now spread all over the floor. “The sauce I made was the mushroom sauce. The same way I’ve been making it since you taught me how. The same way I’ve been making it for six months.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Melody step to my station, where the pot of sauce that I made is still sitting. The wrong sauce was on the entrée. But I’m not the one that put it there. Solomon is the one who did the final touches on the dishes. The one thing he still does because he wants control over how they look.
Everyone in the kitchen knows that. And if what Miguel said was true, that everyone in this shockingly silent kitchen knows how capable I am, then everyone knows that this isn’t my mistake.
Solomon laughs, maniacally. “You’re nothing, Rachel. This is a pathetic play to get back at me because I wouldn’t sleep with you for a promotion you haven’t earned.”
Rage tints my vision, and I hear gasps from my coworkers. I’m done with this shit. I’m done being nice. I’m done rolling over and putting up with Solomon’s abuse. My bills are taken care of now. I don’t have to worry about being on the street if I don’t have this job. “Oh really? I thought it was your hand that I had to push off my ass ten minutes ago.” I yank the necklace off my neck and put the ring on, holding it up for him to see. “Newsflash, asshole, I’m married.”
Solomon freezes, and then pure hatred spreads in his eyes. Rage like I’ve never seen. For a split second I wonder if I shouldn’t have told him that—if I maybe pushed him over the edge. But I don’t have time to wonder. He grabs a steak from the counter next to him and hurls it at me with a roar.
I catch it. Your reflexes have to be good working in a kitchen, and I don’t think twice before I hurl it back at him. His reflexes are shit. Yet another sign that he’s lost his touch and is riding on everyone else’s coattails.
The steak connects with his face in a satisfying smack.
Unbuttoning my chef’s coat, I drop it to the floor, and walk away, stopping only to grab my bag on the way out. I don’t need to say a word for everyone to know that I’m never coming back.
5
Clayton
The sight in front of me is not the one that I expected to find this early in the morning. Hell, I didn’t expect to see it ever again, and my gut twists up at the burst of strange pleasure and hope.
My not-quite wife is standing in front of me. She’s leaning up against the fence by the barn, blue jeans so tight I have no trouble seeing every curve of her gorgeous ass and what look like brand new cowboy boots.
Internally, I chuckle. Her feet will be blistering by morning. Boots aren’t the easiest shoes to break in, especially if you’re not used to wearing them. Hell, she’ll be lucky if she can walk in the morning.