Page 6 of Billionaire Wolf Needs a Chef

The pressure was intense, but it also lit a fire in me. I wasn't just fighting for this job anymore; I was fighting for me. For the part of myself that had been buried under Ashton's cruel words and the weight of my failures. I wasn't going to let Cameron Fitzgerald, or anyone else, dim that spark.

I rolled up my sleeves and dove back into the kitchen, experimenting with flavors and textures, letting my instincts guide me. Time slipped away as I worked, the kitchen filling with the intoxicating aromas of roasted vegetables, fragrant herbs, and toasted spices.

As the afternoon turned into evening, I continued to work, refining the recipes and brainstorming ways to make them stand out. When I finally stepped back to survey my progress, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I'd created three new meal kit concepts, complete with tasting notes and ingredient lists.

At some point, Cameron returned. He stood like a gargoyle in the doorway, watching me work. Finally, he stepped into the kitchen. "Whatever you're making, it smells amazing."

I smiled, stirring a pot of simmering coconut curry. "Just trying out a few ideas."

I shoved the curry toward him. "Taste it."

His eyebrow arched. "Bossy."

He sucked in a breath, a sharp animalistic inhale as if he could taste the curry's aroma in the back of his throat. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating. For a moment, I thought he was going to scold me.

A beat of silence. Then he nodded and rolled up his sleeves. I gulped as the motion exposed his tanned, steely forearms. There was a curious black tattoo of a wolf intertwined with a rose on his right arm. My fingers itched with the absurd urge to trace its lines. Heat pooled low in my belly. God, what was wrong with me? I averted my gaze and busied myself with the curry before he caught me staring.

I pretended the heat in my chest and face was from the steam of the curry as I ladled a small portion of the curry into a bowl and handed it to him. He took the spoon from my hand, our fingers brushing. A jolt of electricity shot up my arm. Anxiously, I watched as he took a cautious bite. His expression remained stoic, but he took another spoonful and another until the bowl was empty.

"This is remarkable, Ms. St. Clair. The balance and depth of flavors, it's a perfect recipe."

Warmth spread through me at his praise. "Thanks. I was thinking it could replace the dish in the "Spicy Thai Nights" kit. The ingredients in the curry are easy to source and the recipe is foolproof even for amateur cooks. What do you think, Mr. Fitzgerald?"

He set down the bowl and picked up the notepad where I had jotted down my notes for each of the meal kits. I held my breath as he scanned what I had written down. "I think you've done well for your first day." His expression softened. "Get some rest. You've earned it." With those parting words, he turned to exit the kitchen.

"Does that mean I've got the job?" I asked, barely able to keep the giddiness out of my voice.

"Report back to the kitchen tomorrow morning at eight o'clock," he called over his shoulder.

I grinned like a fool as I gathered my notes and tidied up the kitchen.

As I stepped out of the building and into the cool night air, the pressure to impress my new boss was still there, but so was the determination. I didn't know what tomorrow would bring, but I was ready to face it head-on.

The city buzzed around me, the lights of skyscrapers overhead lit up the streets as people rushed out of their offices to head home. For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this was my chance to start over, to prove to myself that I had what it took to succeed.

As I walked home, the smell of roasted garlic and herbs still lingered on my clothes, a comforting reminder of the passion that had brought me here. No matter what challenges lay ahead,I wasn't going to let anyone, not Ashton, not Cameron, not anybody, take that away from me.

Chapter 3

CAMERON

I was already awake when my alarm went off at precisely 4:45 a.m. Sleep was a luxury I rarely indulged in, and tonight had been no exception. The faint glow of dawn filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, casting long shadows across the stark, minimalist interior. Every surface was spotless, every item in its designated place.

I rose from the bed, my movements precise and deliberate, and began my morning routine. A quick shower, a shave, and then into the tailored suit I'd laid out the night before. The dark fabric hugged my frame perfectly, a testament to the craftsmanship I demanded in every aspect of my life. By 5:30 a.m., I was seated at the dining table, a steaming cup of black coffee in hand, and my tablet open to the latest company metrics.

Cam's Comfy Cuisine was my life's work, a multi-billion-dollar empire built from the ground up. But the recent scandal had threatened to tear it all down. One of the company's suppliers had been caught cutting corners with ingredients and all meal-kits for the last month had to be recalled. My jaw tightened asI scrolled through the reports, the numbers glaring back at me like an accusation. Sales were down, investors were nervous, and the media was circling like vultures. I couldn't afford another misstep.

My phone buzzed again, this time with a reminder for my meeting with Brody and Boris Tanner. The name alone was enough to sour my mood. Boris was the CEO of Gourmand's Galore, a rival meal-kit company that had been nipping at my heels for years. He was also a rabid wolf in a tailored suit, and I had no doubt this meeting was another attempt to exploit my company's vulnerability.

I drained the last of my coffee and stood, smoothing the front of my jacket. Control, I reminded myself. That was what mattered. And yet, as I headed for the private elevator that went up to my penthouse apartment, my mind kept drifting back to her. Ivy St. Clair.

She was a puzzle, one I hadn't yet solved. Her resume was impressive, but it was her audacity in the kitchen yesterday that had caught me off guard. She'd stood up to me, defended her choices instead of backing down, and for a moment, I'd been intrigued. But intrigue was dangerous. I couldn't afford distractions, especially from someone I barely knew.

The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped into the tastefully luxurious lobby of my apartment building. The doorman nodded a polite greeting, and I returned it with a curt nod of my own. The car was already waiting at the curb, with my driver holding the door open. I slid into the back seat, the leather cool against my skin, and pulled out my tablet once more.

"HQ, Mr. Fitzgerald?" the driver asked as he merged into the early morning traffic.

"Yes," I replied without looking up, my focus already back on the figures in front of me.

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