Taste of the Dark - A Mafia Romance

"KPIs for everything," Tony adds, wiping tears from his eyes. "Customer satisfaction scores."

"'Your moaning was only at seventy percent capacity.'" Chef Rubio mimics Bastian's clipped tone perfectly. "'I expect excellence in all areas, Ms. Hunter. This is simply not good enough.'"

I snort-laugh so hard cappuccino nearly comes out my nose. "He'd probably write NGE on my ass with a Sharpie."

That mental image sends everyone into fresh hysterics. One of the prep cooks is literally on the floor, clutching his stomach.

"Stop, stop," the French stagiaire gasps. "I cannot breathe!"

"You know he'd time everything," I continue, emboldened by their laughter and the sugar rush from the bite of kouign-amann I just stole. "Foreplay: twelve minutes and not a second more. Any longer is just poor time management."

Chef Rubio scoffs. "Girl, you're being generous. That man would schedule sex like a business meeting. 'I have an opening between my 3 P.M. conference call and my 3:45 portfolio review.'"

"Forty-five minutes?" Tony shakes his head. "Nah, he'd block fifteen, tops. Five for the act, five for a critique, five to check his emails."

"While still in bed," Samuel adds.

"While still inside you," I correct.

Everyone guffaws; meanwhile, I'm trying to ignore the way my whole body feels like it's been dipped in hot sauce. Making fun of Bastian like this feels dangerous, thrilling. It's playing with matches next to a gas leak.

Part of me wonders what he'd think if he could hear us. Would those ice-blue eyes narrow in that way that makes my stomach do weird jumping jacks? Would his jaw clench? His hands tighten? His eyes burn?

"You know what the worst part would be?" I say, riding the incomparable high of making your coworkers laugh while you talk shit about your tyrannical boss. "Bastian would take one look at you and⁠-"

"Ahem."

I hear a throat clear, and even as I start to turn, I know what I'm going to find.

Sure enough, I do.

Bastian Hale stands framed in the kitchen doors, impeccable as always in a powder blue shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. His scowl is at full force today. That ten percent smirk from last night is nowhere to be found-it's pure venom, pure heat, pure what the fuck do you think you're doing?

Our eyes meet across the kitchen.

The laughter dies in my throat.

"Don't stop on my account," he growls. "Tell me, Ms. Hunter: what would I take one look at you and do?"

If spontaneous human combustion were real, I'd be a pile of ash right now. If only that were so.

Everyone turns in slow motion, like those dreams where you're trying to run but can't move fast enough. The horror on their faces might be comical if I weren't experiencing my own personal apocalypse.

"Mr. Hale!" Chef Rubio recovers first and tries to jump to my rescue. "I was⁠-"

"Not you, Chef." He steps into the kitchen, and everyone takes an unconscious step back. It's like watching a nature documentary where the antelope sense the lion approaching and wait to see which poor sucker he'll be turning into lunch. "Please, Ms. Hunter-continue."

I want to die. I want to melt into the floor and become one with the tiles. I want to reverse time and tell past-me to keep her stupid mouth shut about what Bastian Hale may or may not do while he's still inside of you.

But I can't do any of those things.

All I can do is squeak out a pathetic "I'm sorry" that crashes and burns before it even makes it halfway across the kitchen.

Bastian nods like he expected no less. He takes another meandering step into the kitchen and his gaze sweeps around as if to memorize every flushed, guilty face. "How thoughtful of you to cater a breakfast party, Ms. Hunter. I wasn't aware we'd restructured the morning schedule to include social hour."

The kouign-amann in my hand wobbles. "It's not-" I start. "I just thought⁠-"

"You thought." Another step closer. "You thought it would be appropriate to distract my entire kitchen staff during extremely important crunch time hours with... " He picks up a box and examines it like it contains evidence of a crime. "Pastries."

"Mr. Hale," Chef Rubio tries again, "we were just⁠-"

"Getting back to work, I assume." He doesn't even look at her. His eyes stay on me, and there is nothing-nothing-of last night's warmth in them. "Unless Ms. Hunter has also taken it upon herself to do that for you? Perhaps she has opinions on the tasting menu for the investor dinner? Well, Ms. Hunter? I'm all ears."

My face burns. Everyone is staring at their shoes, their half-eaten pastries, anywhere but at us.

"I was trying to be nice," I croak.

"Is 'nice' anywhere in your job description, Ms. Hunter?"

"No, but⁠-"

"But nothing." He drops the box on the ground and a donut goes rolling mournfully into the distance. "You're not special, Ms. Hunter, and you are not exempt from the rules or from the work. You're an employee. One of many. And like every other employee, you're expected to focus on your actual job instead of playing food fairy to people who should be working."

Who is this man? I want to scream and ask anyone who will listen. What happened to the bright-eyed tease from last night? Who is this asshole, this tyrant, this stranger?

And who am I?

Last night, I felt-stupidly, maybe, or naively-but I felt like I was somebody to him.

This morning, I am nothing. Just another employee. A food fairy getting her wings plucked off.

My eyes burn. Do not cry. Do not cry in front of Bastian Hale and the entire test kitchen staff.

"I came in early," I manage. "On my own time."

A surge of angry heat passes over his face. "If you have enough of that, perhaps we're not challenging you sufficiently. I'll have to adjust your workload."

"I should go," I say, in a horrifyingly sad echo of last night.

"Yes," he agrees. "You should."