Adam POV
"What is it?" I heard my sous-chef ask the intern. Lorenzo's been paying her way too much attention. I don't allow flings in my kitchen. I don't have the patience for the drama that comes with those little workplace romances. Lorenzo knows that. So why the smiles? The hovering? As if her walking chaos wasn't enough, now I had Lorenzo orbiting around her too.
"You're limping."
I looked over the moment I heard that.
"It's nothing…" she said, wiping down the counter with badly disguised nerves. But Lorenzo insisted, saying her name in that tone that demanded honesty.
"Blisters. I'm wearing sneakers without socks."
Of course. Another issue. What goes on in this woman's head? It's not just bad luck or clumsiness — she clearly doesn't think about consequences. Why didn't she buy socks? Ask someone? Go home to get them if she knew she'd be rubbing her feet raw?
Well… at least lunch service had gone relatively okay. She knew where things were now. Didn't look like a headless chicken all the time. And she'd dropped fewer things. But whenever I barked a command too loud and she had something in her hands, it either hit the floor or got spilled across the counter.
"Let me see."
"What? Now? Here?"
I shook my head and walked out of the kitchen. I didn't have the patience for this. I could already feel a headache forming — probably a premonition of whatever disaster Parker was about to cause next.
Upstairs in my office, I opened the hidden door that led to the apartment above. I went straight to the bedroom, opened the drawer. Stared at the socks. What the hell was I doing?
I closed the drawer. Then opened it again. Grabbed the socks. Looked at them. Ready to put them back. But before I knew it, I was already heading back down with them in my hand.
She was sitting in a chair, applying ointment and a bandage. Lorenzo was already putting everything away.
I placed the socks in front of her. She looked up at me, surprised. I mumbled something I didn't even understand myself, but it was enough for her to take them.
"Thank you, Chef Adam. I'll return them later."
"No need. Burn them if you want."
"I don't smell that bad," she replied — almost like a challenge. No. She definitely didn't smell bad.
I looked at her. Not sure who was more surprised by her words — her or me. I knew I was being an ass. Arrogant. But her crooked smile and that slightly offended look had disarmed me for a moment.
Shit.
"I'll return them clean, obviously."
"No need," I repeated, almost a growl. "I've got more socks. Just like I've got more shirts."
Her face turned bright red — remembering yesterday, clearly, when she tore my shirt. So it's not just Lorenzo who makes her blush, I thought. I found myself wondering what part of my wardrobe she'd ruin next. I shook my head, irritated, trying to chase away the ridiculous thought.
I watched her pull on the socks slowly, almost resigned.
"Let's go," I said once she finished.
"Where?" she asked automatically, brow furrowed.
"I'll drive you home. I need to do some shopping for tonight's service."
Jordan POV
I still don't fully understand how I ended up there, inside Chef Adam's car. His scent seemed even stronger in that small space. The tension? Don't even ask. And his intimidating aura? It had mass.
He was attractive. One of those men with features carved a little too perfectly for the sanity of women nearby. Not a classic, approachable kind of handsome like Lorenzo. No — his was different. Striking, almost sinful. Wrapped in arrogance, exasperation… irritation.
I found myself watching him more than I should. I fiddled with my hands, uncomfortable, trying to gather the courage to say what had been buzzing in my head. I wanted to ask something. A favor. But how do you start a conversation with a social ogre who grunts more than he speaks and clearly resents having you in his car?
"What is it?" he asked suddenly, like he'd read my mind.
I almost said "nothing." But this was a chance I couldn't waste. I swallowed his grumpiness. Swallowed my pride.
"I need to go shopping too. Can we… can we go together? I mean, I'll help with the restaurant stuff while I grab my own and then you can drop me off, if you don't mind. It's just… I haven't been able to do any grocery shopping since I arrived and my fridge is completely empty."
I said it all in one breath, terrified he'd cut me off midway. I felt his gaze on me for a second — just a second, but enough to make my heart race. Then he turned his eyes back to the road without saying a word.
He didn't say anything. But instead of heading toward my place — which I'd already given him directions for — he turned toward the grocery store.
My apartment wasn't far from the restaurant, but with that blister on my foot, the walk would've been painful. I probably would've ended up back in flip-flops halfway there. The thought made me smile.
Oh, and not having to carry heavy bags of groceries was a celebration-worthy miracle. I couldn't help smiling — which, let's be honest, clashed hard with the grumpy thundercloud driving next to me.
Something weird was definitely happening. Shopping with Chef Adam actually went fine, despite the painfully awkward silence. But I noticed something odd: he didn't buy much. Barely anything for tonight's service — and a few things I was sure we still had in the stockroom.
But here's the kicker: he helped carry my groceries up to my apartment. And since it was almost time to head back to the restaurant, he even waited while I put everything away and then drove me back.
This had to be some kind of omen. Something bad was coming. Right?
I offered him a coffee — fresh from the store — and some biscuits I'd brought from home. Homemade. He accepted the coffee but passed on the biscuits. I set them in front of him anyway, just in case.
I left him in the tiny living room of my rented apartment and went into the kitchen to quickly put away the essentials. The rest I'd handle later. It was almost an open-plan — just a half wall separating the kitchen from the living room. A few steps away was the bathroom, and at the end of the hall, my bedroom.
"You don't have much stuff," he commented suddenly.
"Just brought one suitcase," I replied, a little self-conscious. No clutter. And clearly, I'd left important things behind… like backup shoes. I was supposed to buy more if I stayed longer — or ask my dad to send the rest. But I didn't say any of that aloud.
"I didn't see the dog."
I froze, halfway through putting eggs in the fridge, and glanced over my shoulder.
What did he mean by that? Was he suggesting I made the whole thing up?
"He exists. I didn't make it up." I defended myself immediately. Maybe too fast.
I heard him laugh. I swear I blinked, stunned, staring at him. And some part of my brain just… shut down.
"I know," he said, still smiling slightly. "No one in their right mind would make up that excuse to wear flip-flops to my restaurant."
I couldn't say a thing. My brain was still stuck on his laugh. That smile.
"Ready?"
No. I was definitely not ready for that.