Jordan POV
"Sit."
And I sat. But I couldn't shake the feeling of discomfort. It felt… weird. It's weird to be here. Weird having the usually unbearable — but undeniably incredible — Chef Adam cooking just for me. Even if it was just a snack.
I tried to look everywhere but at him… and failed. Because, honestly? The view was… something else.
There he was, standing in the kitchen, focused on what he was doing. Shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, collar slightly undone, posture firm and confident. Every movement was precise, methodical — like even slicing bread was an art form. And on him, it was. At least from the angle I had.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Straight back. And that walk — or maybe that hip movement — made the shirt, and of course the pants, fit just a little too well. Good Lord. How could a man look so… delicious just from making a sandwich?
Even from behind, there was something about him that pulled me in. Maybe it was his dark hair, perfectly styled but slightly tousled. Or his neck. Seriously — necks shouldn't be sexy. But his was. And I couldn't help remembering my dream. I blushed. Looked down.
And ended up staring at my boss's butt.
I let out a soft sigh and forced myself to focus on the table instead. No, Jordan. You are not drooling over your boss. At least not in front of him.
But damn… it was hard.
He placed a sandwich in front of me. And scrambled eggs. When did he even make scrambled eggs? And fruit. "Oh! This is… way too much," was all I managed to say.
"Eat." He handed me the plate and grabbed some orange juice from the fridge. Then he sat beside me with a sigh. His long legs brushed against mine. The surprise made me flinch slightly and pull away. I saw him raise an eyebrow, like: Seriously?
"Not hungry?"
"Oh! No, I am." I took a bite of the sandwich. "Oh! This is amazing!" Maybe I sounded too excited — but it was amazing. There was this light, creamy spread tying everything together. It was smooth, delicate… Or maybe I was just really hungry.
"Did you already pick the recipe for the vlog?" he asked after a short silence.
"Yeah… I mean, I was torn. I was going to check what ingredients we had."
"Can I see?" I blinked, looking at him. There was still a bit of hesitation in me — that shadow left by someone who's been betrayed. But I nodded. This was Chef Adam, after all. He didn't need my recipes.
I grabbed my phone, ready to show him — but he put a hand on mine.
"Eat first." I nodded way too quickly. My heart sped up at the touch. I was sure my face turned redder than a ripe tomato. I swallowed hard and tried to cover it with a cough. I reached for the juice… and of course, I spilled half of it across the table — and onto him.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" Panic flooded me. I jumped to my feet, grabbed some napkins, and frantically tried to wipe the table, hoping to stop the juice from spreading further.
But then I noticed — some of it had landed on his lap. And, well… my hand went there.
Instinct.
He moved fast, grabbing my wrist and sliding the chair back like I'd burned him. We stayed like that. Him, standing.
Me, frozen. His hand still holding my arm, our eyes locked for a second that felt way too long.
"It's fine," he said at last, with a frustrated sigh.
"Finish your food. I'll go change."
I watched him walk away, heading to a bedroom at the end of the hall. And the second he was gone, I finally breathed. I finished wiping down the table like it was my life's purpose.
Sat back down, feeling… ridiculous. How did I always manage to embarrass myself in front of Chef Adam? At this point, it was practically a talent.
I sighed. One of those deep, soul-crushed sighs that only come when your dignity is on life support. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, right? I took another bite of my sandwich and… looked up.
Mistake. Big mistake.
From this angle, I had a clear view straight into the bedroom he'd entered. And he'd left the door open. Part of me wanted to look away. The other part? Well… it stayed. And guess which one won?
He had his back to me. He took off his shirt slowly, naturally, like he wasn't fully aware a woman was visually starving just outside his door. And me? I stared.
Chef Adam had a body that should come with a warning label. Broad, sculpted back.
Perfect shoulders. And when he ran his hand through his hair, as if deciding what to wear next, I nearly moaned out loud. I pressed my thighs together, trying to ignore the strange wave of heat at my center.
I leaned forward a bit on the stool. Just a bit. For… research. Professional curiosity, right?
My mind screamed for me to look away. That was invasive. That was wrong. That he was my boss. My chef Ogre. But my body? Apparently, it had unplugged my brain. My eyes tracked him like they had a mind of their own.
Oh. My. God.
Don't look, Jordan! I mentally yelled at myself. And… I ignored me.
He turned slightly, giving me a partial side view — and my mouth went drier than the Sahara. His chest was so defined it looked carved from stone. Who has abs like that while running a Michelin-star kitchen?! And yet… there they were. Every. Last. Square.
I swear I was about to look away — I swear! — But then his hand reached for his waistband. And yep, he started undoing his pants. Slowly. Methodically.
And it was exactly at that moment — that peak visual sin — that I fell. Literally.
The stool tipped. My body lost balance. And I crashed to the floor with a loud, clumsy thud.
"Ow!" I squeaked — more from shock than pain — scrambling to sit up, my face already on fire with embarrassment. I heard footsteps coming from the bedroom.
Shit.
"Jordan?" His voice. Rough. Close. Too close.
I wanted to disappear. Vanish. Be abducted by aliens. Anything but this. Jordan, you are a grown woman. Get up. Face it. For the love of your own sanity.
I stood up almost too fast, heart pounding — but there was no use pretending. If I could see him, even partially, then he could definitely see me.
Maybe the table had hidden something… but not enough.
He'd seen it. The fall. The shame.
Just like I had seen him. A lot of him.
But now… Was he fully dressed?