Chapter 10
It was awkward. There was no other way to describe it.
I sat on a plush velvet chair in Scott’s study, staring at the shelves of old books and leather–bound files, pretending I was not imagining him in nothing but a towel.
Except…I absolutely was.
The image kept flashing in my mind–the water dripping from his chest, the startled look in his eyes, the way his muscles flexed as he fumbled for the towel.
I buried my face in my hands and groaned softly. “Oh my God, Hayley. Control yourself.”
Then, a giggle slipped out. Completely involuntary.
I bit my lower lip to stifle it, but it was too late. The mental image was burned into my brain now. It didn’t help that the man was ridiculously attractive, and now I had officially seen way more of my boss than I ever planned to.
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
I jumped, nearly knocking over a paperweight on the desk. “Oh—!”
Scott stood in the doorway, fully dressed this time in a black shirt and tailored slacks. But the smirk on his face said he knew exactly what I’d been thinking.
“Were you thinking about me just now?”
“What? No!” I said way too fast, flustered. “I mean–of course not! Why would I be?”
He stepped in, closing the door behind him. “Because you were biting your lip and laughing to yourself like someone caught in a daydream.”
1 wasn’t,” I said, though my cheeks betrayed me by turning bright red.
Scott grinned as he leaned casually against the desk. “You’re a terrible liar, Hayley Reid.”
huffed. “Fine. Maybe it crossed my mind. Once. Briefly. Can we move on?”
He chuckled and pushed off the desk. “You asked me why I was walking around like that earlier. Truth is… that’s just how I am at home. Comfortable. Casual.”
I gave him a look. “Casual almost got you exposed.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Almost?”
I swatted the air between us. “Forget it.”
He laughed again, and I couldn’t help but smile. His energy was easy, natural. Not forced. Not controlling. Just real.
“But,” he added, “if you’re going to be working here, I’ll stop.”
That got my attention. “What do you mean if I’m going to be working here?”
“I want you to be my personal chef,” he said, suddenly more serious. “Not just for me, but for someone very important to me–my mother,”
That surprised me. “Oh. I didn’t realize…”
“She’s been struggling with an eating disorder for years,” he explained. “She barely eats anything unless it’s prepared just right. She’s… particular. But if she likes your food, the job’s yours.”
7:17 pm
“I didn’t expect this to be so personal,” I said honestly. “I thought I was applying for a position i your restaurant.”
“I do plan to open one here eventually,” Scott replied. “But first, I need someone I can trust wit my mother’s meals. She’s recovering, but it’s slow.”
A strange feeling passed through me–respect, admiration… and something deeper. This wasn‘ just about business. It was about care.
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll do it. If she likes what I prepare, then you’ve got yourself a chef.”
Scott smiled. “Deal.”
We got to work that afternoon. The estate’s kitchen was stunning–sleek marble counters gleaming stainless steel appliances, a walk–in pantry filled with ingredients I only dreamed of affording. I felt like a kid in a candy store.
Scott lingered nearby, leaning against the counter with a glass of sparkling water in hand watching me with a casual kind of curiosity that made me hyper–aware of every movement I made.
“You know,” he said, nodding toward the cutting board, “the way you’re slicing that zucchini? Pretty sure it’s the most graceful thing I’ve ever seen in this kitchen.”
I smirked without looking up. “That’s because most people slice like they’re in a horror movie. This is called technique.”
“Oh, excuse me,” he said with a playful grin. “I stand corrected, Chef.”
I glanced up briefly. “You sure this isn’t all just a ploy to get me to cook for you every day?”
He lifted a brow. “Would that be a bad thing?”
“That depends,” I said, arranging the ingredients neatly. “On whether you’re going to hover o help.”
He walked over and leaned close, too close. “I’m an excellent taste tester.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Of course you are.”
He picked up a spoon from the counter, dipped it into the sauce I’d just finished simmering, and tasted it. He paused dramatically, closing his eyes. “Wow.”
“Too salty?” I teased.
“No. Too good,” he said, eyes opening to meet mine. “I might actually fall in love.”
I rolled my eyes, but my face heated anyway. “Do you flirt with every woman who cooks for you?”
“Only the ones who nearly ran me over with charm and resumes on the street.”
I laughed. “Well, lucky you, then.”
Later that evening, I was told she’d tried the food.
My stomach was in knots as I waited for the verdict. Scott’s staff kept their expressions unreadable. I was starting to think I’d blown it when one of the maids entered the kitchen.
“Miss Hayley,” she said. “Mr. Thompson’s mother would like to meet you.”
Oh God.
I wiped my hands on my apron, smoothed my hair, and followed her through the halls. My palms
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