Page 11 of Shades of Red

“Your broth is about to boil, golden girl,” I warn her, not even needing to look over. I can smell that she left the burner set on too high a temperature. “You shouldn’t let it get so hot. It might burn.” Without another glance, I go back to my station to focus on my garbure, which I’ve left at the perfect temp. I taste the rich stock mixture of ham and duck and herbs, and I can already tell it’s one of my best dishes. This one came from the heart, however dark and twisted it may be.

I’m going to cook my fucking cock off, and then I’ll shove all eight inches down Aurélie’s throat after I win.

I’ve never hadhumble pie, but from the disgusted look on Aurélie’s pretty face, it must taste terrible.

I won. It wasn’t even close. Chef Matis was impressed enough to say that he’d never experienced such a layered representation of flavors in a liquid based dish. Granted, the soup course is hardly a cornerstone in French cuisine, but I appreciated the praise.

Aurélie looks as though someone shit in her soufflé when I walk back to my station for the first time as a challenge winner. And I can’t wait to claim my reward. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” I ask, my tone smug.

“Bravo,” she replies tartly, starting to put away her things for the day.

“Ah, back to French I see. Is someone mad?” I goad.

“Non.”

“English in the kitchen, Aurélie,” I scold. “You don’t want me to have to tell Chef you’re being a bad girl, do you?”

Her eyes flash with heat as her cheeks redden enough that I can see it underneath all that makeup. Shelikesthe degradation, and the thought brings a devious smile to my face. “Or maybe that’s exactly what you want me to do,” I say, reaching out to run my thumb over her lips. She shivers beneath my touch and looks up at me, her eyes shining with need like I’m the first man to make her feel fire with his touch. I’d like nothing more than to watch her burn.

“Hey, congrats!” comes a familiar and unwelcome voice from behind me. I feel a friendly pat land on my back, and I have to resist the urge to rip One’s fucking hand off. “Welcome to the victor’s circle,hermano.”

“Thanks, One,” I respond through gritted teeth, stepping away from my naughty little French girl to greet the intruder. Can’t he see we are having a moment?

“Hey, it’s Javi,” he corrects. “What’s Chef’s deal with the numbers,anyway? It’s like some weird, detached robot shit.”

I smile tightly. Communicating with people who are overly chatty is not my strong suit. Of course Aurélie doesn’t jump in to save me. She just watches me drown. “I think he’s trying to keep us distanced so we can all focus on the food rather than creating personal relationships with each other.” Like that fucking worked.

“Well, fuck that. This is Paris. We should be having fun and enjoying it.”

“Sure,” I answer shortly, eager to get back to my earlier conversation before we were interrupted.

“Some of us are going to L’Armurerie after we close up. Are you guys in?”

As soon as I open my mouth to say I have better fucking things to do than sit around and drink with a bunch of people who are trying to take my job, Aurélie beats me to an answer.

“Oui, avec plaisir.We would love to come,” she answers brightly like we weren’t just about to discuss the things I will do to her when I get her alone.

My eyes cut to hers, and she looks distinctly pleased to have found what she thinks is an escape from our bargain. She assumes that being around others will save her, but she’s wrong. If I want her, nothing can save her from me.

“Yeah,” I agree, very obviously wrapping my arm around her waist. “I’d love tocome.” The emphasis on my last word is for her alone, and she squirms at the implication that she’ll be the one ensuring that I do. Preferably on her naughty fucking knees.

Antique muskets,portraits of Napoleon, and a number of French flags line the pale blue walls of L’Armurerie, the overtly French bar that seems to bring in more tourists than Parisian regulars. It’s gota theatrical vibe that I don’t necessarily enjoy with my alcohol, but they have authentic top shelf liquor, so I don’t complain too much as I order an old fashioned for myself and a cherry martini for Aurélie. She didn’t ask for it, but I take great pleasure in giving her the things I know she’ll enjoy even if she acts like she doesn’t want them.

“What’s this?” she asks when I hand her the red colored drink with a skewered cherry on the side. She eyes the drink suspiciously before looking up at me with a raised brow.

I scoff at the implied insult. As if I’d have any need of roofies to get her to give in to me. And if I wanted to poison her—which I’ve definitely considered a time or two—I wouldn’t do it in the middle of a fucking bar. “It’s a drink, Aurélie,” I explain in spite of its obviousness. “I thought it suited you. Cherry sweet but bitter at the same time.”

She scowls at the jab, but says nothing as I take her hand and lead her toward the low table and plush leather lounge chairs where the rest of our party is waiting. There are six of us—the ones who were single and didn’t have families to go home to. There is only one vacancy left at the table, and it’s an oversized chair that just barely functions as a loveseat with enough room for two. A smug smile tugs at my lips at the sour expression on Aurélie’s face when she realizes we’ll have to share it.

“Hey, there they are,” One, orJavi, calls when we reach the table, the drink in his hand already half-gone. “Is this okay?” he asks, gesturing to the loveseat. “If it’s not cool, we can pull another chair from one of the tables.” He looks around the crowded space. “I’m sure we could find one in the back.”

This time, it’s my turn to respond before Aurélie can get in a word of protest. “Oh no, it’s okay,” I answer with an easy smile, pulling her forward. “We share a station. We can managethisjust fine, can’t we, golden girl?” I look down at her sweetly, and she looks about ready to slice off my hand that’s still holding hers. I slide into the plush seat andpull her down beside me. “Cozy, isn’t it?” I think she’s realizing that I’m going to make this a whole lot harder for her than it would have been to go home with me.

“So how did you guys end up at Dix?” Javi asks after we’ve gotten settled and gone through introductions. Gusteau is from northern France, Erich from Germany, Luukas is from Finland, and Javi himself is from Cuba. We’ve got quite the mix. And poor Aurélie is the only girl.

“I’ve lived in Paris for almost three years,” I start. “One of the girls at my previous restaurant was contacted by Dix about the opening for sous. She declined, but she offered up my name instead. I was lucky Chef Matis liked my boeuf bourguignon enough to offer me a shot,” I finish with a shrug.

“Bourguignon is a hard one,” Erich chimes in. “He auditioned me with crêpes. Simple procedure, but no room to fuck up.”

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