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“You can keep the kissing part; I’ve no interest in your herpes. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I stomped my way back toward the kitchen.
A hand reached out to me from one of the tables. Slender, cold fingers laced around my wrist. I turned to look at the person. It was a brunette in her early thirties. Sharply dressed.
“Mr. Casablancas?” She flashed a seductive smile that did nothing for me, the lilt of a French accent ribboning around her words. “My name is Sophie Avent. I’m a reporter for Cook’s Illustrated.”
I never gave interviews. Unless it was a part of my contractual obligation for a TV show promo, in which case I had my people go over the questions in advance with a fine-tooth comb. My past was too tangled, too complicated for me to open my life up for the world’s entertainment.
“I was wondering if you would—”
“No,” I cut into her words.
“You didn’t hear my question yet,” she pointed out smartly.
“Unless it ends with ‘let me suck your cock’—in which case, the answer would be ‘no, but thank you’—the answer is still no.”
“Heyyyyyy there!” Rhyland slid between us, chuckling good-naturedly. Sophie Avent’s face looked like I’d just slapped her, and I didn’t blame her. There was no excuse for this level of asshole-ness. Normally I reined it in much better. Rhy bowed his head at Sophie, looking genuinely horrified. He was a damn good actor, and an even better liar. “So, first of all—apologies for his crassness; easing him into civilization has been a step-by-step process. Clearly, he escaped his cage.” Rhyland rearranged the utensils on her table, his heartthrob smile working extra hours. “Second, your dinner is on the house and will be accompanied by a lovely 1998 Chateau Lafite Rothschild and an exclusive ten-minute interview.”
That wine was close to seventeen hundred dollars. And my time was priceless. Nonetheless, Sophie’s expression remained unimpressed. “Did he just…?”
“I wish I could tell you he didn’t, but we have an audience, so let’s focus on how to remedy the situation and make you happy.”
She curved an eyebrow. “You can make me happy, I’m sure.” The suggestion had been clear.
“Consider it done, sweetheart. Now!” Rhy patted her shoulder, his American Psycho smile still intact. “Please allow me to direct all my wrath—excuse me, attention—toward my volatile, genius boss. Be right back to take your order. And number.” He winked.
He slapped a hand over my back and led me to the kitchen, his face turning from pleasant to murderous. “What the hell was that?” He punched a wall as soon as we closed the door and were out of sight. The whole building rattled. He pointed at the door. “Every single person in that restaurant was staring at you like you were crazy. Know why?”
I had a feeling I did but waited for him to confirm it.
Rhyland opened his arms wide. “Because you are crazy!”
“Kieran made my life hell in high school.” I perched against my station, picking up a Georgia peach and halving it with my knife. I tossed it into a pan, along with a spoonful of lemon juice and some sugared rum, tipped the pan down, and let it flame and caramelize. The fire danced in yellows and oranges between me and Rhy, who rested his fists on my counter.
“Yeah, I remember, I had a front-row seat to that horror show. You two had a four-year-long pissing contest, and everybody got rained on.” Rhyland pushed off my counter, pacing the small space between us as I lowered the flame. “But you’re no longer in high school, and he might no longer be a dick.”
“It’s a free country; I can serve whomever I want.” I tilted the pan here and there, letting the peach simmer in its own juices. “And I choose not to serve male genitalia.”
What I needed was a cigarette. Didn’t give a shit that it was probably giving me cancer. Didn’t have much to live for anyway.
“Fine. Kieran is a sore subject for you, so I’ll let it slide. That thing with the journalist, though?” He pointed at the door. “That’s sexual harassment.”
“I said I don’t want to fuck her.” I glowered at him, sliding the peach onto a plate.
“You said she wants to fuck you.”
“Where’s the lie?” I flicked my gaze over his shoulder to watch through the partition window as a server handed the Sophie chick our best wine. “If I had a drink for every journo who made a pass at me, I’d be Hemingway.”
Rhy tucked his iPad under his arm, shaking his head. “Women don’t like to be told they aren’t desirable. You’d know that if you ever bothered talking to one.”
“You’re making me sound like a misogynist. It’s not like I talk to men either. I’m an equal-adversity person.”
“Well, the good news is, now tonight can’t get any worse.” Rhyland stared out the door’s window.
“Chef?” Taylor came to a screech in front of me, holding on to my butcher block.
“Yeah?”
“The grill station is on fire.”
