Page 3 of Shades of Red

“English,” Chef Matis bites out. “There are a lot of chefs from a lot of different regions thatdeserveto be here. And I want us to be able to understand each other.Est-ce que vous comprends?”

The girl bites her lip, clearly shaken by being tongue-lashed in front of a large audience. “Yes, chef,” she agrees in a low voice, her eyes falling to the floor.

“You’re in the back,” Chef Matis instructs with a sharp nod toward the vacant seat beside me. “You already have a lot to prove, Ten. Do not make things harder for yourself.”

“Yes, chef.” She scurries toward the back of the kitchen, her kitten heels clicking softly against the marble.

Because I desperatelywantto look at her, I don’t. I keep my eyesfocused on Chef Matis as he begins his welcome address, the tone of his voice even and soothing as he tells us how genuinely excited he is for this project. How Dix was conceived from his heart and how he hopes we will be willing to put a little bit of ourselves in it as well.

“Bonjour,” she whispers beside me, her voice so quiet I can barely hear her over our head chef.

“Bonjour,” I answer without a glance, keeping my eyes fixed on Chef Matis.

“Ahh, American,” she says, a note of derision in her tone.

Now I do look at her, surprised by her comment. “Excusez-moi?” I ask, continuing in French as I feign obliviousness. How exactly can she peg me as an American with one French word?

“Please stop. It is like you’re raping my ears.” Her voice is haughty, and her English, like every other Parisian willing to speak it, is annoyingly perfect.

“Fine,” I concede, crossing my tattooed arms over my chest. “How could you tell?”

She scoffs. “Please, Americans speak French like they’re mimicking an American cartoon character who’s pretending to be French. It’s terrible.”

“Fair enough,” I retort, appreciating her ability to call things as they are, even if she’s discriminating against my entire country while she does it.

Unable to resist the urge any longer, I let my eyes roam over the girl beside me. Her hair is that rare color that looks like actual spun gold, radiant and striking even beneath the artificial light in the kitchen. She has long bangs framing her face; it makes her look innocent and young, although I’d say she’s about my age and just out of school. Her eyes are a light blue that’s almost violet; they’re wide and round like saucers. She barely has any makeup on, and she doesn’t need it. Her skin is like cream, her cheeks naturally rosy. A bit of liner is swipedabove and beneath her blonde lashes, and her full lips are stained a bright, cherry red.

She ruined her lipstick a little when she bit her lip, and I want to run my thumb over her bottom lip and smear it even more. There’s nothing quite so beautiful as a girl who is an absolute mess. I banish the enticing thought before my cock has a chance to introduce himself before I do. I turn away and try to focus on Chef Matis as he shares about all the local farms they source their produce from, where they harvest their fish, the countryside dairy farm they get their beef from.

From the corner of my eye, I see the girl frown, misinterpreting my silence as offense rather than restraint. In all honesty, it’s preferable to her knowing that I’m ignoring her so that I don’t picture what that creamy skin looks like covered in sweat and cum andred. She’d look like berries and cream, and I bet she’d taste just as sweet.

Fuck, there’s no hiding the tenting in my pants at this point. As discreetly as possible, I move to the cooking station, pressing my erection against the stainless steel to hide it and leaning over with my elbows beside the gas burners. I feel her move beside me, mimicking my stance against the stove.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’ve been told I can be a little tart.”

“Is that the French way of saying you’re a bitch?” I ask, my eyebrows raised. She groans like she already hates me, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Is this how you usually accept an apology?” she asks, frustration creeping into her tone.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not typically on the receiving end of them.”

“T’es pas possible,” she mutters under her breath.

I smirk down at her. “Now that I have heard before.”

“And I have the pleasure of sharing a station withyouall summer?Génial!”

“Hey, I’m not so thrilled with the arrangements either,” I scoff, even as our little scuffle sparks something warm and tingling in myblood. “Somepeople don’t have the luxury of showing up whenever it suits them.”

She shifts uncomfortably, tugging the hem of her uniform down. It’s only then that I notice a smear of red above both knees, a nude bandage peeking out on one side beneath her chef’s whites. I quirk a brow at her, expecting some sort of explanation for why she stumbled into the kitchen twenty minutes after the rest of us.

“I fell,” she answers vaguely, frowning when she notices me staring at her knees again. She crosses her legs and leans over the stove to keep me from studying her. “I was biking from my apartment—on time, I might add—and my wheel slipped out from under me. I had to run back home to change and clean up a bit.”

“I’m pretty uncoordinated,” she adds, shifting again on her pointy-toed shoes.

“That must be a terrible detriment in the kitchen.” My full lips curl into a devious smile. “Should I hide the knives? Wouldn’t want someone to lose a finger.”

She looks up at me like a kitten who longs to have the claws of a lion. “It would probably be advisable if you want to keep allyourfingers,” she bites back.

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