Page 21 of Sold To My Ex's Dad

Observing the dynamic, it's clear that Patrick has mastered the art of leadership. His staff moves with purpose, their dedication evident in every task.

I trail behind him, a flurry of thoughts whirling through my head, chief among them the undeniable attraction I feel toward him—a desire reignited with every moment we’re together. Just seeing him in the kitchen is enough to turn me on.

Yet there's a line I'm worried about crossing. The last thing I want is to be seen as the girl who got the job because she slept with the boss and not on my own merits. This is my dream job, and I have to earn it on my own, no matter how complicated my feelings for Patrick might be.

In a moment of boldness or maybe in a desperate attempt to prove myself, I ask, "Would you like to give me a task, a sort of trial to prove I can handle the position?"

“You’ve worked for Marco for two years?” he asks in response.

I nod.

“Welcome aboard, Allie. If you can handle Marco, I'm pretty sure you'll fit in just fine here. I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do."

Before I can spiral too far into my thoughts, Patrick suddenly shifts into boss mode. I watch as he strides over to one of the younger chefs, who's apparently in the middle of a sauce crisis. It's like stepping into a reality cooking show, minus the dramatic music.

"Let me show you again," Patrick says with authority. "The sauce needs to be velvety, not ... whatever you've managed here."

The young cook, a guy probably not much older than me, looks terrified yet eager to learn. "I thought I followed the recipe exactly, Chef."

Patrick remains patient, grabs a spoon, and switches into teaching mode. "Cooking isn't just about following recipes. It's about intuition, understanding the why behind the what. Watch."

They lean in together, the young cook hanging on to Patrick's every word. There’s a master class happening right in front of me, and it’s fascinating to watch.

When he’s finished, Patrick pats the young man on the shoulder—a gesture that seems to say, "I expect a lot, but I know you can deliver." Turning back to me, his expression hardens. "In this kitchen, it's not just about making food; it's about crafting experiences. Everyone here is crucial to that mission."

I can't help but be impressed. Patrick's tough, but he’s also fair. He's worlds apart from Chef Marco, who seems to thrive on fear more than mentoring. Here, when someone is corrected, it’s done to educate them and push them to be better.

"Tough but fair. I can work with that," I say, half-joking.

Patrick smirks. There’s a hint of challenge in his gaze. "Glad to hear it because I won't go easy on you, either.”

We head back to his office to finish our discussion; I mentally give myself a pep talk.

"You'll need to swing by early tomorrow when you can to tackle the mountain of new hire paperwork. Oh, and we'll sort out your uniform," he says, sounding every bit the boss now. “I want you to be ready to start on time.”

"Absolutely, I'll be here with bells on,” I reply. “Thanks a million, Patrick. This is huge for me. I’ll give Marco my two weeks’ notice and be ready to roll right after.”

He stands, a clear sign that our official business is over, and offers his hand. I hesitate for just a nanosecond because the last time we were this close, paperwork was the last thing on our minds.

Taking his hand causes flashbacks of our night together. Our eyes lock, and suddenly, it's like we're the only two people in the universe. I feel my face flush, and Patrick smirks like he knows the turmoil he's stirring up inside me.

After what feels like an eternity but is probably just a few seconds, I manage to let go of his hand and turn. I throw another thank you over my shoulder and make a beeline for the door.

Stepping outside, I take a moment to collect myself. That’s when the reality of what I’ve just signed on for hits me head-on. How am I supposed to keep my mind on work with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Smoldering hovering over me?

Chapter 14

Allie

Rushing home with tears in my eyes isn't exactly how I pictured my evening ending.

But here I am, mascara running down my cheeks, all because of Chef Marco's reign of terror.

He swooped in, fork in hand, to pass judgment on my latest creation. He took a bite, and for a second, his eyes lit up like a kid who'd just discovered the joy of popping bubble wrap. But then, he frowned.

"This is all wrong!" he declared, his voice rising over the sizzle and chatter of the kitchen. "The balance is off, the presentation is amateurish, and this …" he gestured to my dish with the fork, "… this is simply unacceptable."

Maybe it was all in my head, but I could have sworn I saw a dusting of white powder under his nose, evidence that he’d been spending time with his drug of choice.

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