Page 19 of Sinfully Shameless Chef

That woman doesn’t know me. Not at all.

How can she accuse me of not caring?

I care too much.

Apparently, explaining my relationship with Grant and how it might affect him if we fail wasn’t enough for her to believe I’m anything but a selfish prick. It can’t be further from the truth. Living with Mike Fury as a father taught me what a selfish prick is and how to recognize one instantly. I’m nothing like that man. I’ve made sure of that.

But Isabella will think whatever she wants to. That’s fine. I can’t let her anger or frustration with the situation derail me. Or the fact that I find her as attractive as I do frustratingly annoying.

I start to make my way across the restaurant floor toward the kitchen when the door pulls open again.

She's back for round two already?

I turn around to face her, but instead of Isabella, I find a pretty redhead with a brilliant smile.

“Hi, I have an eleven o'clock interview. I think I'm a little early.”

Oh, my…luck certainly is on my side today.

I chuckle to myself and divert toward her with my hand extended. “I actually think your interview is next door with Isabella. But since you don't have to be over there for another half an hour, why don't we have a chat? I'm Jameson Fury.”

She takes my hand in hers and shakes vigorously, her smile lighting up even more. “Oh, yeah. I know who you are. I loved your season of Prime Chef.”

Of course, you did.

I’m banking on everyone loving it and recognizing my face and name when it comes time to finally open this place. I grin at her and nod toward the bar. “Come on over here, and let's have a chat.”

Sorry, Isabella…but all is fair in love and opening a restaurant.

5

JAMESON

“Are you sure you don’t need me to help with anything?”

The sincerity in Bash’s question drags a laugh from deep in my chest. Ever since I graduated from culinary school, he’s been offering me money that I keep refusing. He seems to think I’m going to change my mind if he just asks over and over.

“What would you be able to help with in opening a restaurant besides giving me cash, which I’ve already said no to about a hundred times? You can’t even boil water.”

Bash gives a mock gasp of indignation over the phone. “That's not true. I absolutely can boil water. I can even drop pasta into it and not overcook it at least a quarter of the times I try. Though that is about the extent of my kitchen skills.”

The sad thing is, he isn’t even joking about that. After having Mom, Rach, and me cook for him growing up and then being provided meals in college and when he played to ensure he was on a good diet, he never needed to learn to fend for himself in the kitchen.

“Yeah, well, if you'd spent any time with Mom instead of always out on the ice, maybe you would've learned a thing or two.”

Shit.

A twinge of regret hits the moment I say the words. It was meant to be a joke, but it didn’t really come out that way.

Things have been tense between Bash and me for so long that sometimes I forget he isn't the enemy. The man who is now buried six feet under back home in Michigan was, but the damage he did is etched deeply into the fiber of all of us.

Some more than others.

Silence lingers through the line for a moment before Bash releases a deep sigh. “You still blame me for that? For wanting to spend time in the one place that I actually felt like I had some control over my life?”

I grit my teeth, squeeze my eyes shut, and pinch the bridge of my nose. “That's just it, Bash. You didn't.”

None of us did. We were controlled by a tyrant who ruled with brutality and anger and ensured we knew our places and kept our mouths shut.

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