Page 14 of Sold To My Ex's Dad

Stacy's expression softens, her usual bravado giving way to genuine concern. "If that was your gut feeling, then you did the right thing, no matter how good the sex was."

I nod, knowing she's right. My instincts have always guided me, and something about Patrick, as incredible as our night was, raised a red flag.

That’s when Emily and Maya, our other two roommates, come into the kitchen, and I take it as an excuse to go to my room.

"I'm going to crack you open like a safe!" Stacy shouts after me, and I can't help but laugh as I shut my bedroom door.

Once I'm in my room, guilt begins to nibble at me. I kind of left Stacy thinking Patrick spooked me, which is not the case. It's more like he sent my heart into overdrive in the best possible way. But laying all that bare felt way too intense for breakfast conversation.

Growing up in foster care and not having a real family has left its mark. Stacy came into my life and has become the sister I never had. The truth is, I bolted from Patrick out of the sheer terror of getting my heart karate-chopped into pieces. Patrick, with his come hither eyes and magic hands, felt like a hurricane that could sweep me away. So, I hightailed it out of there.

After a bit of pondering in my room, I decide a shower might do me some good. But the second the water hits me, so does the memory of Patrick. And just like that, I'm back in his arms, the world outside a blur.

I can't help the grin that spreads across my face, thinking about how effortlessly he carried me through the evening, how every moment felt charged with electricity, even before anything sexual happened. It's funny how the mind wanders, especially when you're trying not to think about someone. I’m supposed to be scrubbing off the remnants of last night, yet all I can do is replay every laugh, every touch, and every look he gave me.

Chapter 9

Allie

In the back of the house at Verde Oliva, where I’ve been working as a sous chef for the last two years, I’m queen of the kitchen. I’m tasked with the noble duty of prepping the ingredients for our chef's special: gnocchi with a truffle parmesan sauce.

When I'm cooking, I’m like a conductor of an orchestra, where every ingredient hits its cue perfectly. The kitchen's buzzing, pans are clattering, and I am in my element, humming a tune that's stuck in my head. Lost in my chopping and dicing, my mind effortlessly slips back to Patrick, and I cut myself for the first time in years.

It's a minor cut on my finger, but it's enough to snap me back to reality as I run my finger under cold tap water. It's moments like these that remind me of the delicate balance between passion and precision, both in the kitchen and, apparently, in matters of the heart. I put on a Band-Aid and a glove before I finish prepping for the dinner special, my mind continuing to flash back to Patrick.

Chef Marco comes around the corner and looks at me. “Did you cut yourself, Allie?”

I sheepishly nod. “I did, Chef. The knife slipped, but I’m all good.”

He gives me a condescending look and walks away.

Great, now I feel like an idiot.

Back at my station, I dive into finishing the gnocchi, temporarily suspending all thoughts of charming men. I focus on the task at hand, each movement precise and practiced. Proudly, I hand the plate over to Chef Marco, my confidence buoyed by the dish's undeniable excellence.

Marco sighs, picks up his fork and takes a bite. I watch him closely, not missing the brief flicker of surprise that lights up his eyes.

Gotcha.

However, it takes him no more than a heartbeat for his face to settle back into its usual stern mask. "It's lacking," he declares, setting the fork down with a finality that suggests the matter is closed.

"Lacking?" I can't hide the incredulity in my voice. "I'm sorry, Chef, but did we taste the same gnocchi? I think it’s good, very good."

Marco fixes me with a withering look, but I stand my ground. "The sauce is too heavy, the gnocchi too soft," he says disdainfully.

"Too heavy?" I counter, my frustration growing. "The balance is perfect. And the gnocchi is exactly as it should be—light, pillowy—precisely the texture it should be."

"Try again," Marco says dismissively, waving me off, but I know I saw that initial spark of delight in his eyes.

Fuming, I stomp away. I saw that initial look on his face. He knew it was good. No, not just good—great.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize Marco has been edgy around me lately. It's like he's looking over his shoulder, watching his back in his own kitchen. And suddenly, it dawns on me—he's worried about being upstaged in his own restaurant—by me.

I taste the gnocchi again, and it is indeed excellent. It's crystal clear to me now—he's not just critiquing my cooking; he's trying to keep me in my place. But I also know I'm too much of an asset to him for him to even think about letting me go.

As I'm about to throw the gnocchi into the trash, I notice movement at the food prep window. It's Caleb, my ex-boyfriend. What the heck is he doing here? He waves at me like he's just dropped by for a casual visit.

I wipe my hands on my apron and walk over to see what he wants. Luckily, the restaurant hasn't opened yet, so I have time to chat.

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