Page 30 of Sinfully Shameless Chef

He’s far too polished to let what I did throw him off too much, and as I sit and watch, he casually rejoins the conversation and levels blow after blow at me. “I can assure you that we’re going to be the best restaurant in all of Brooklyn, and certainly in Bushwick.”

That bastard!

I knew he would insist on payback; I just didn't think it would be this fast. He is making it clear and sending me a message. He intends to take me down.

Well, he can give it his best try, but I’m ready for him.

As long as I can keep dragging myself out of bed.

Today was rough, and it seems to be getting harder and harder every day. If I hadn’t had a meeting with Barry to finalize a few interior construction issues, I probably would have stayed curled up and just slept to regain some of my energy.

But as it stands now, I don’t have time to relax. Not with Fury breathing down my neck.

I close the app on my phone I’ve been using to watch the morning show and glance around the place. It’s time to dig into some work. Maybe trying to perfect my own menu will distract me from waiting for Jameson to return and the inevitable confrontation that will happen when he does.

Because there’s no way he’s going to let what he said on air be the last word about this.

It’s like bracing myself for an oncoming hurricane—batten down the hatches and all that jazz. I may have unleashed a monster, but I’m ready for him.

Despite feeling exhausted and physically weakened right now, I’m mentally tough as nails. Or steel. Or are nails steel? Whatever is the hardest, that’s what I am.

I make my way back into the kitchen and grin at my prized possession. Saying no to Jameson’s offer to buy the range stung—especially when I went home and looked at my finances. But the victory somehow seems sweeter after what just went down on the morning show.

I’ve secured two major “wins” in the last few days—three, if you count the other little prank I pulled in his kitchen while I also messed with his menu. He can’t have discovered that one yet, because I’m sure I will hear about it immediately—likely from cursing and screaming coming through the shared wall.

So, for now, I cook and wait for him to return from his few moments in the spotlight…with a smug smile on my face for as long as I can wear it before he comes in and wipes it clean off.

The prick.

I drag out all the ingredients I need for Grams’ chili, throw my hair into a messy bun, crank up the music from the radio on the far end of the counter, and set to work making one of my absolute favorite dishes.

It doesn’t really need any work for the menu, but I know some people don’t like too much spice in their food. I want to please as many customers as possible, so the plan is to make two versions—Grams’ classic and a slightly “watered-down” version that removes a lot of the spice and makes it more palatable for people who can’t handle it.

I hope you understand, Grams.

Altering her recipes feels sacrilegious somehow, but if I want to compete with FURY right next door, I need to offer something he doesn’t—approachable food that doesn’t scare off customers with fancy names and ingredients…or by burning off their tongues.

I’m feeling spicy today, though. Maybe because of my tiny wins. So, this batch will have a little something extra. The workers will probably appreciate a free lunch later, so it won’t go to waste even though I can’t possibly eat it all myself.

Time flies, chopping, stirring, and swaying my hips to the music, and I almost miss the sound of the front door closing.

Almost.

It makes me freeze with the spoon held over the pot. If it’s Jameson, he’s going to come swirling in like a tornado. And I’m not expecting anyone else ‘til later this morning when Barry is supposed to return with his guys and what he needs to build the benches for people to use while waiting in the hostess area.

I shift my shoulders back and brace myself.

Only instead of a furious Jameson Fury, he appears in the doorway to the kitchen with a smug smirk tilting his perfect lips and leans against the jamb, crossing his arms over his muscled chest. Intentional or not—and with this man, I’m almost certain it’s always intentional—his biceps bulge against his pale-blue T-shirt.

He clears his throat, and I jerk my gaze away from the taut muscles there and to his eyes that dance with humor.

Dammit. The jerk caught me staring…again.

It was bad enough when he was out on that damn chair sunbathing practically naked, but he’s clothed now. My attention should be focused on how to take him down, not on the ways I want to take him. And there are so many ways dancing through my head right now.

Why does he have to be so infuriatingly hot?

He raises his dark eyebrows at me, the corner of his mouth curling up even more. “You don’t have anything to say to me?”

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