Page 4 of Shades of Red

“You wouldn’t threaten so lightly if you knew what I could do with these fingers.”

Her gasp of shock informs me that I’ve accidentally said thisout loud. Usually I’m more adept at keeping those sorts of thoughts in the dark corners of my head where they belong. She glares at me, her delicate sense of decency offended by my slip. I scowl back, my body turning rigid beneath her haughty gaze as she arches her dainty brow and presses her lips into a firm line. Clearly, she thinks I’m beneath her. I’m tempted to show her exactly what it feels like for me to be beneath her.

She must read the threat in my eyes because she startles, her bigblue eyes wary as she backs away from me slightly and digs her teeth in her bottom lip. And fuck me, that little habit of hers will be the death of my sanity. I want to be the one tearing into her skin, maybe even breaking it so I can see her bleed just a little. I bet it would be the prettiest shade of red.

Fuck, now I’m fixating, and I really shouldn’t be letting myself disappear like that when I have a challenge to win. Groaning at the effort it takes to focus and pull myself back from the edge of obsession, I shove that part of myself deep down and leave it to drown before dragging the last remnants of my professionalism to the surface.

“Can we just start this whole thing over from the beginning?” I ask, almost managing to keep the sultry rasp out of my voice as I hold out my hand. “I’m Grey.”

She huffs dramatically before she takes my hand, her fingers twining with my own. I ignore the flames trying to flicker through my veins at the feel of her bare skin against mine.

“Aurélie,” she offers at last, the name like a poem on her tongue.

“Pretty,” I can’t help but say, my fingers still wrapped around hers.

“Are we bothering you, Nine and Ten?” a loud voice calls from the front of the kitchen.

We both turn to find every eye in the room trained on us, Chef Matis glaring with his arms crossed over his broad chest. And I am suddenly very aware of how close Aurélie and I are standing, our hands still touching. “No, chef. We were discussing today’s challenge, chef.” I shove away from the stove and walk backward to my prep station. With a slight delay, she follows, moving to stand rigidly in front of her own spot.

“Is that so?” Chef Matis continues, his cold eyes fixed on me. “Then perhaps you can tell us what you all will be cooking today?”

I swallow hard, caught in a lie with no way to escape. “No, chef,” I answer, embarrassment thickening in my throat.

“I see,” Chef Matis responds, no discernible emotion in his tone. “One, will you please remind Nine and Ten what they will beattemptingto make today?”

“Bouchée à la reine, chef,” he responds like a soldier reporting to a drill sergeant. Not a bad comparison by all accounts.

“Correct.” Chef Matis turns his stern gaze back to me. “Do you think you can handle that, Nine?”

“Yes, chef.”Not a chance in hell.

“Parfait. Since you both were already so prepared for the task that you didn’t need to listen to the instructions, you and Ten will have five minutes less to complete your dishes. Then you can show us all howrealprofessionals cook. Yes?”

“Yes,chef,” we both answer in unison, though she sounds absolutely livid. If I had to guess, she’s as eager to use her knives to sift through my entrails as I am to use mine to slice through her clothes. It’s an intriguing contrast, and I can’t immediately decide if the lust and violence don’t pair well together.

“Begin,” Chef Matis commands, and the entire kitchen bursts into motion. Most head for the walk in and the pantry, a couple start with gathering their cookware. And me—I have no fucking idea where to start.

“What are you doing?” the girl with golden hair asks when she comes back to her station, her arms full with canisters of flour, salt, and a large block of butter. I still haven’t moved, and I survey her chosen ingredients with growing unease.

“I’m ruminating,” I lie, feeling a sheen of sweat break out against my palms as nervousness pricks at my insides. I wipe my hands on my uniform, hoping she doesn’t notice my panic.

She slams all the items on the countertop. “Merde, you’ve no idea how to make bouchée à la reine do you?”

“I thought I would just wing it,” I answer with a shrug.

She chokes a little, her big blue eyes going even wider. “You cannot wing pâte feuilletée.Puff pastry is very delicate and precise. You need to have exact measurements and skilled technique to get the layers perfect.”

Pastry for our first challenge, and I was too distracted by the golden girl beside me to even listen to the instructions.

Fuck my life.

I hear a distinct string of French swear words unbecoming of her pretty mouth as she seems to consider what to do with my incompetence. She disappears to sift through the rack of cooking utensils, appliances, and supplies. She storms back, rolling her eyes as she slams a kitchen scale and two metal mixing bowls on the counter.

“Clear your station,espèce d’imbécile d’Américain,” she demands, her hands on her slim hips in a stance that is distinctly patronizing. “I’ll help so you don’t disgrace this kitchen with whatever monstrosity you think passes as pastry.”

She intentionally steps on my toes in her red pointed heels while crossing my side of the kitchen, andmon Dieu, I think she’s already stolen my heart.

Fuck, this timeI’mlate. I’m running as fast as I can to make the twelve minute walk to Dix in the five minutes that I have left. Not even the toned muscle that I’ve spent years perfecting through a mixture of cardio and strength training is enough to save me. I’m fucked. I’m going to walk into that kitchen to Chef Matis’ glare of disapproval and Aurélie’s infuriatingly smug smile on her cherry red lips.

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