Page 17 of Howl You Doin?
I bite my tongue to keep from telling him how much his piss poor attitude sucks and glance around the room.
“What other transgressions?” I ask sweetly, rising up from my chair.
“Sit,” he demands.
I smile, moving behind the gentleman’s chair in front of his desk and leaning against the tall back of it gently. He can so kiss my ass. “I’d rather stand, thank you.”
Obviously put out that I didn’t follow his order, his eyes harden. “Repeated insubordination.”
Oh. He means the cupcakes. I withhold a snicker and look out the window to keep myself from cracking.
“Are you even listening, Miss Whitt?”
“Of course. I am listening.” Oh, Iam listening, you jackhole.
“I am redoing the menu to fit a specific theme,” he says, not telling me anything I don’t already know while looking at his computer and typing away on it as he speaks.
Who the hell can do that? I can barely walk and chew gum, the robot. Tuning out words like efficiency and inattention, I watch, transfixed, as the man’s mouth moves, his tone deadened as he types with one hand on the keyboard and takes a sip of his coffee mid bitchfest.
“And you will wear a costume to humor the guests as needed.”
My eyebrows raise. “You cannot be serious.”
He raises a hand, cutting off my words. “I will approve all meals.”
My jaw drops at the words, and suddenly it’s as if I am enacting a Saturday morning cartoon with steam rolling out of my ears. “When I took this post, I told you that very night that this is my kitchen until I give up my post.”
“And I am telling you, chef Whitley, that I am taking over.”
My stomach fills with lead.
“The hotel is branching out, and making a greater experience for customers is one way to do that,” he continues.
“We host for guests every day. What kind of costumes?” I ask, unable to keep my mouth shut.
“The kind I want you to wear.”
Images of him choking while my hands squeeze around his throat flit through my mind. The universe is testing me. It is the only thing that makes sense.
“And if I do all of this, I get the bonus?” I can’t help but ask.
“Cook everything to my specifications and do as I say.” He growls the last part and a muscle tick in his jaw. “And we will see about your bonus.”
My teeth grind in my mouth as I move toward the door, intent on getting as far away as I can before I lose it.
“No more cupcakes,” he barks out. “That will be all.”
Chapter 5
Connor O’Doyle
You stole a yacht?
An hour later,I still can’t get her out of my head.
Whitley challenges me at every turn and her scent has somehow permeated every part of the bloody castle so much that I am forced to block my nostrils even in my own bathroom. If only she truly were an idiot, maybe it wouldn’t piss me off so much how she prances around the place, leaving cupcakes in her wake like a cake-making Bonaparte, but she knows exactly what she is doing to me.
Vlad cannot get back soon enough.
