Page 101 of Brooke
“Oui,”came the deep voice at last.
Relief shot through her. “It’s Madison. Give me five minutes.”
The door buzzed.
She shoved it open and marched through an archway leading to some fancy-pantsy garden that probably made normal people gasp and clutch themselves at the peace and symmetry of it all. Not her. She charged up the path and was about to pound on his equally impressive door when it opened widely.
He stood there wearing faded jeans and a green sweater, unshaven, his face the color of boiled milk.
She had her answer.
“You look like shit, and Brooke cried so much she covered my shirt in snot this morning.” She gestured to her clothing with a grimace. “I have something to say to you and then I’m outta here.”
“You have a restaurant opening tonight.” He stepped to the side to let her barge inside. “That is the only reason I opened the door.”
“Understandable. I heard you planned on taking off this morning.”
“In about thirty minutes. You just caught me.”
“I’m a lucky girl today.” She glanced down his impressive hallway, her insides knotting again. “Where do we do this?”
“How about the kitchen? You are most comfortable there.”
Points to him for choosing a location she preferred. “That makes you a good guy,” she said, following him through theclosest door he gestured toward. “Holy shit. This is your kitchen? It’s nice.”
“Did you expect a culinary hovel?” He was a giant in the space as he faced her. “A modern deconstruction of a food court?”
Irony dripped from his tongue. That was fine. She got snarky when she was hurt. Sighting the honeyed wood of his kitchen island, a butcher block medley of colors, she pulled her knife carrier out of her bag and opened it, drawing out her cleaver. “I’m only doing this for show, since I think you’re planning on listening to me. I feel like it still makes the kind of statement I’m looking for.”
His gaze dipped to the shining cleaver as he took the position across from her at the island. Smart man. “I see. Are we inspired byScarfaceorThe Godfatherthis morning?”
“Neither.” She took a deep breath, ready to plunge in. “I’m here for Brooke. And if we’re looking at this right, you too. Sawyer clearly trusts you. He blew us all away this morning admitting to some secret meeting with you. Hell, I’ve liked you despite wanting you to keep your decorating paws away from me and my stuff.”
His lantern-like jaw tensed. “Madison, it’s been a very trying cycle of hours. Get to the point.”
She nodded, fighting the urge to pick up her cleaver, since she worked better with it in her hand. But that would be too menacing probably. “Fine. You love Brooke. She loves you. We’ve heard her side. I’m sure you have yours, but here’s the thing. I’ve heard your side before, and your side is clueless.”
His brows rose in pure disdain. “Oh?”
“Yep. It’s the total guy perspective. Completely ignorant about how it works for us chicks.” She held up her hand to forestall any mansplaining. “Now, I’m not here to argue with you. I’m here to tell you that you don’t know how it is. Know why? Because people don’t act like jerks in front of guys like you. You don’t see what they do or what they’re capable of.”
His brows knit in his giant forehead, which she thought was progress.
“Do you see this cleaver?” She touched it lightly with her finger. “I love this guy. Not only because he can slice open a tranche of beef but because he’s a weapon when I need one. When I was in culinary school here in Paris, things weren’t so bad.”
A muscle leapt in his cheek, which was fine because an entire pond of bullfrogs was jumping in her stomach, their slime coating her suddenly chilled skin.
“You’d have chefs or guys training to be chefs do little stuff. The whole brushing up against you shit as they checked on your progress cooking something. The leaning too closely into your backside when they looked over your shoulder at the stove. The accidental touch on the ass or the tit when they thought no one else was looking, with the whole innocent eyes routine if you said anything or gave them the look.”
He was frowning darkly now.
“When I graduated and joined a kitchen in Miami, things grew more aggressive. The worst kind of asshole is the cocky, entitled kind. I was top of my class in cooking school, better at my job than some of the schmucks I worked with. Didn’t matter. With some of the other chefs and management jerks, they didn’t look at me and see a chef.”
He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
She only pointed to her damned curves, the ones she wore all black to cover. “They saw tits and ass in an apron wearing a chef’s hat. I got talked to and treated in ways no male chef would ever experience. I had men corner me in the cooler and tell me what they were going to do to me after our shift ended, with a preview at the ready. I got to taking my cleaver with me everywhere I went to deter them from bothering me. Even then I worried they might fire me for it. Things got better when Chef Marcel came from Paris to take over, but Istill had to watch myself and work twice as hard as the guys.”
“That is a deeply angering story,” he said, all but growling out a sigh, “and I am sorry you endured such a thing.”
