Page 2 of Possessive Greek Chef

Bedros sees the fire in my eyes and nods his swollen head. I drag him into the dining room and practically throw him at the brunette beauty. He stumbles, steadies his bobbing head, and says, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s Atticus Adimos!” someone shouts and I see all of the cell phones pointed in my direction. This little altercation will be all over the internet in a matter of hours.

“Don’t ever disrespect a woman like that again, you second-rate burger flipper!” I shout. “Has anyone in this place enjoyed their dinner?”

“The food sucks,” someone yells.

“I got extra bread to use to re-brick my walls,” another diner cries.

“If you thought it was bad going in, just wait until it comes back out. You’ll be lucky if it comes out the right end,” I add and everyone laughs.

“It’s no coincidence that the hospital is so close,” someone chimes in.

“Overpriced fast food and watered-down drinks,” I shrug, and the crowd roars.

Still mortified, his hot, little victim manages to crack a small smile when I look at her. I don’t know if it’s a result of how amped I am or my burning attraction to her, but I pick her up and toss her over my shoulder. The crowd gasps and breaks into a round of applause as I carry her through the exit door.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” she protests.

“With me, where you belong,” I reply.

2

THE AMAZING ATTICUS ADIMOS

ARIA

Six blocks from the restaurant, Atticus finally sets me down on the sidewalk. I straighten my jacket and brush the hair from my eyes as I try to steady my swimming thoughts.

“Why did you do that? I have to go back,” I tell him.

“You’re not going back there,” he says as he grabs my hand and pulls me farther from my place of employment.

“I need that job. Besides, I left my purse. My identification, credit card, everything.”

“I’ll get your things for you tomorrow.”

“Did you not hear the other part? I need that job!” I shout.

“No, you don’t. You work at Andromeda now.”

“You don’t even know if I can cook,” I argue.

“You can cook.”

“How would you know? You don’t even know my name.”

“What’s your name?”

“Aria. Aria Greene,” I stammer, caught up in the emotional electricity.

“How old are you?”

“T-twenty.”

“Well, 20-year-old Aria Greene, you can cook.”

“How do you know?”

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