Page 4 of Santa's Pretty Helper

“Hey,” she said softly, tucking a curl behind her ear. I swallowed hard, telling myself to get it together. To stop drooling over Bella Holland.

She’s not for you. Never was, never will be.

“Hey, birthday girl,” I said, cringing inwardly at how fucking dorky that sounded. She stepped closer, tilting her head up to look at me with those big, innocent eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You seemed…” She shrugged. “Distracted at dinner.”

I nearly choked on my tongue as visions of lifting her onto the kitchen counter and doing filthy things to do her filled my mind. How loud could I make her moan? Would she like it if I gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises as I fucked her into next week?

“Yeah, no, I’m fine,” I lied, my voice sounding ragged even to my own ears. “Just a lot on my mind. Work stuff.”

She nodded, worrying her full lower lip between her teeth. I gripped the counter even tighter to keep from reaching out and pulling that lip free with my thumb.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” she said with a sweet little smile. “I wouldn’t want to celebrate my birthday without you.”

The words were simple, but they made something twist sharply in my chest. Her sweetness was warm and soft, and I wanted to lose myself in it. It was torture knowing that could never happen.

Before I could stop myself, I reached out, cupping her impossibly soft cheek in my palm. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away, and for a moment, we just stared at each other, the air crackling with tension.

“You’ve grown into the most beautiful young woman, Bella,” I said in a low voice, the words ripped from my chest, almost against my will.

She blushed but didn’t look away, holding my gaze, green eyes glittering. I traced the line of her cheekbone with my thumb, and she shivered, making my cock ache.

“Gabe,” she whispered, and it sounded like both a plea and a question. I felt as though I was under her spell, entranced by her green eyes, the constellation of freckles across her nose.

One kiss. I could give her one kiss. It was her birthday. Surely I wouldn’t burn in hell for one birthday kiss.

But just then, Eric stepped into the kitchen, shooting me a what-the-actual-fuck-are-you-doing look, and Bella stepped back….

…And that’s when I knew that nothing would ever be the same. It was as though I’d been struck by lightning, the image of grown-up Bella seared onto my retinas. Into my very soul.

Ever since that night, I’ve been obsessed. Every single time I see her, I fall a little deeper. I look for excuses to be near her. I follow all of her social media profiles. I know her schedule, and sometimes I’ll follow her—to campus, to the library, to a coffeeshop—just to get a glimpse of her.

I can’t help it. Ever since that night, I’ve craved her in a way I’ve never craved anything in my life. I want Bella so badly it’s like a sickness in my blood. One I can never cure.

I’m jolted back to the present when the kitchen doors bang open and Hugo Worth sweeps in, his pudgy face mottled with rage. He’s the owner of Haute Maison, and a first-class asshole on his best days. He’s a blowhard who thinks he’s god’s gift to the culinary world, despite having the palate of a toddler. He’s made servers cry so many times I’ve lost count. Normally, he’s not an issue because he stays busy with his other ventures, but he’s here tonight and he’s in peak Hugo form, apparently.

“Holland!” he bellows, and the entire kitchen goes silent, all eyes swiveling towards Hugo. “What the fuck is this?” He’s waving a plate around like a person possessed. There’s almost nothing on it, save for little bits of food and some sauce that makes me think it was an order of duck a l’orange.

Eric looks up from his station, his brow furrowed. “What’s the problem, sir?”

“This shit is fucking cold, that’s the problem!” Hugo roars, spittle flying from his lips. “How many times do I have to tell you idiots that food goes out hot? You’re all a bunch of clowns in chef’s costumes!”

Rage bubbles up inside me, and I abandon my onions and cross the kitchen in a few long strides. “That’s enough,” I say, fighting to keep my voice calm. I step between Hugo and Eric, putting Eric behind me. “You don’t talk to my staff that way.” Especially not Eric, who hasn’t done anything wrong besides have the misfortune of being in Hurricane Hugo’s path tonight.

Hugo turns his furious glare on me, his face going an even deeper shade of red. “Yourstaff? This ismyrestaurant, Mitchell,” he says, spitting out my last name like it’s some kind of insult. “Or did you forget that? That you’re here bymygrace.”

I put up with the occasional Hugo tantrum because Haute Maison is one of the best restaurants in the city, and I love what I do. But with every outburst, every bullying gesture, my patience wears a little thinner.

“Your restaurant, my kitchen,” I say evenly, meeting his gaze. “And I will not have you coming in here and screaming at my staff over some made up, bullshit reason. How can the food be cold when the plate’s nearly empty? Give me a fucking break, Hugo.”

Hugo laughs, a harsh, mocking sound that makes my hands curl into fists. “Your kitchen? Your staff? I don’t think so.” He shakes his head, a cruel smirk twisting his mottled lips. “You think you can talk back to me? You think you’re the cock of the fucking walk inyourkitchen?” He laughs again. “You’re fired. Get the fuck out.”

Shock freezes me in place, and I can feel every pair of eyes on me. But I don’t look away from Hugo’s face. I refuse to flinch in the face of his sneering, asshole behavior.

“You’re not going to fire me,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I’m the best chef you’ve ever had. If I leave, Haute Maison will be a dumpster fire before Christmas.”

Hugo takes a step closer, craning his neck to look up at me. I’m a few inches over six feet, and right now I’m enjoying towering over him. “I can do whatever the fuck I want. This is my restaurant, not yours. And I want you gone. Now. I’ve had enough of your attitude.”

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