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Trying to redirect the conversation, I quickly apologize. “My mistake, I’m sorry. So what are your meal goals?”
He seems confused again; his eyebrows furrow and he studies my face, then speaks slowly, as if I’m too dense to understand normal talking speed. That raises my hackles. “To get fed?”
Well, no crap, sir.
“I mean, are you looking to get healthier?” I need to be delicate in my wording so I don’t offend him, “or have a more well-rounded diet, try new recipes, do you have any meal goals?”
With every suggestion I give, his eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch. “I am healthy.” With that, he glances down at his body, spreading his hands out to his sides before glancing at me with a playboy smile.
I hold back the urge to sigh. “Sometimes we can look healthy on the outside but be doing damage internally with an unbalanced diet.” Surely he knows that his diet isn’t ideal, right? A doctor must have broken down good eating habits for him at some point in his life, right?
He lifts a hand as if to shush me. “I’m sure I’m healthy inside and out, thank you.”
I’ve never heard someone say a “thank you” that sounded so much like they were saying “screw you” before in my life. The sheer willpower it takes to keep my mouth from dropping open at his rudeness should earn me a medal of some kind, because I really want to slap some sense into him.
“I am a professional in my field.” He has to respect that, if nothing else.
But the way he goes completely still and stares me down has me uncomfortable and shifting my weight from one hip to the other. After several moments of sizing me up, he speaks in a low, overly-cordial tone that makes my blood freeze in my veins.
“You can work for me, or you can do it your way. One will result in you having a job, the other won’t.”
I’m stunned by his ultimatum and grit my teeth. He’s domineering, insufferable, and downright rude. I don’t like him, but I do need this job. “Fine,” I say through my teeth. “I’ll do it your way.” Except I have zero plans to let him eat himself into heart disease. He thinks he’s won, but he’s so damn wrong.
Chapter Two
Charles
I can hear her banging around in the kitchen, mumbling under her breath as she prepares my meal while I ignore her.
She’s lucky I don’t fire her on the spot for her behavior. But I have no doubt I’ll mentally and verbally beat that attitude out of her... or she’ll be finding a new job very quickly. The message from Laurel and Arson tells me she’s highly recommended and that I should listen to her advice - as if I didn’t do my own independent research on her - but I’m not about to change my habits because one beautiful woman says so.
“You’re glaring again.” My mother’s soft voice drags my attention from the woman banging around my kitchen to her loving face. “She really got to you, didn’t she?”
I don’t like the slight smile on my mother’s face, and I sit back in my chair, tightly crossing my arms as I study her. Unlike everyone else, my mother is not at all bothered by my stare; no doubt because I inherited the signature look from her. She rarely employs it anymore, but when she does, there’s not a grown man alive that doesn't feel the cold stab of fear tearing through his chest to puncture his heart.
“Where are you going with this?”
Instead of answering my question, she glances toward the kitchen. “I'm just saying you can be a bit of a stickler when it comes to your meals. Maybe hiring a professional isn't going to work out.”
I wonder if she's forgotten that this was her idea.
“I'm sure everything will work out fine, and if it doesn't...” I spread my hands in a clear indication that I have no issue letting the chef go. I wasn't married to hiring a chef at the start, and I'm still not certain having someone - particularly a strong-willed woman who seems to have a problem with my diet -cook for me is even a good idea.
“You're not going to fire her.” My mother shakes her head and glances toward the kitchen. “She's a good girl, and if she's putting up with you, she's a saint.”
I'm not about to take my mother's words personally - she never misses an opportunity to playfully tease me. She’s the only person who dares do so, and for good reason; she’s the only one I’ll let get away with that kind of behavior.
“We’ll see about that.” It's cute that my mom thinks she's calling the shots, but she's absolutely not in charge around my house. The fact that I keep my voice low enough that she doesn't hear me - much less respond - is of no real consequence, of course.
Ever since my dad passed away from a heart attack, she's spent a lot more time around my home. I enjoy her company, but we do butt heads at times. I have a feeling that this is going to be one of those times and that this cook is going to be one of our hot button issues.
My mother gives me a sideways glance, a little half smile tugging the corners of her lips. “Whatever she's cooking, it sure smells delicious. Even you can't deny that.”
Even me? What is that supposed to mean?
Whatever she’s implying, this is not a conversation I’m in the mood to engage in, so I keep my questions silent. As if on cue, the chef walks out with two plates and sets one before my mother, who energetically thanks her. The cook smiles, closing her eyes and bowing her head and body in a near-curtsy.
My mother nods her head politely in return and gives me a glare out of the corner of her eyes. The cook doesn’t seem to notice my mother's glare, but she certainly places my plate before me with much less kindness and fanfare than she did mom’s. The feeling of the two women already ganging up on me without ever having the opportunity to plan doesn't bode well for the future of this work relationship.
