Page 3 of Possessive Greek Chef

He stops, grabs my elbows, and bends to look me in the eyes, “You hurt that fat prick's pride. That’s why he lashed out. That means you can cook.” He lets go and takes my hand again, continuing our ascent away from Bedros.

“And where are we going?”

“Andromeda. I thought I told you that.”

“You want me to start work right now?”

“No. I still need to eat dinner.”

I can’t wrap my mind around what’s happening here. It all happened so fast. I might wake up tomorrow and realize that this was the worst decision of my life, but right now, my instincts are telling me to stay right where I am. I’ve swooned over pictures of Atticus Adimos in culinary magazines for years.

Not only is he hands down one of the top chefs in the world but he’s also been named the sexiest chef in the world, with his olive skin, dark eyes, and silken hair. His topless photo shoot on Glyfada beach made my pulse race and my panties a little wet. But nothing compares to how he looks in person.

He’s even bigger, towering over me in height and about three times my width. He’s also known for his temper as he so clearly demonstrated a few minutes ago.

We arrive at Andromeda, and he walks me straight into the kitchen. Unlike the kitchen at Bedros, it’s spotless. Bedros gobbled up state-of-the-art kitchen equipment like cookies but couldn’t be bothered to respect them. He treats his kitchen like he treats his employees. Everything is there to serve his needs, not the other way around.

Atticus removes his black coat from a hook and puts it on.

“What’s for dinner?” I ask, trying to break the silence.

“Souvlaki and Moussaka,” he replies as he pulls a pan down from the rack.

“That’s what you ordered at Bedros?” I ask.

“Yes, and now we’re going to make it correctly.”

He instructs me to bring him ingredients from the walk-in and I do as I’m told. His kitchen staff looks on curiously as we find a rhythm and begin cooking together. He watches my technique and nods approvingly. “I told you that you could cook.”

With dinner prepared, we move out to the dining room and I hear the oohs and aahs from the crowd when they see him. He ignores the fanfare as if it’s normal to have people swoon over him. Bedros would sell his soul to the devil for this kind of attention.

He places the tray on an empty table and holds out a chair for me. I don’t think anyone has ever done that for me before. If he’s trying to impress me, he’s doing a damn fine job of it.

He cuts off a bit of the Moussaka and holds the fork out to me. I take it between my lips and savor the explosion of flavors on my taste buds.

“That’s amazing,” I tell him. “It's full of flavor but light as a feather.”

“As it should be. Do you have a man in your life? A boyfriend? Husband?”

“Um, no,” I answer, brows furrowing and waiting for an explanation.

“No girlfriend either, right?”

“No, I’m not gay but what does that have to do with…? Why do you ask?”

He flashes me a coy grin and says, “I think you know why. Tell me about yourself.”

“There isn’t much to tell. I grew up in Colonus,” I pause to watch for his reaction. Colonus is listed as one of the most dangerous areas around Athens as a warning to tourists to steer clear.

He frowns at me and says, “Why are you lying?”

“Okay, so I’m not from here. I’m American but, honestly, the place where I grew up wasn’t much safer than Colonus. I went to culinary school in New York.”

“And you came to Greece because?”

“I wanted to cook here and I wanted to get away from home. This is where the opportunities were at the time.”

“What does your father do?”

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