Pretend Love Romance by Penny Wylder
Rachel
I step into the alley and take a deep breath. The kitchen is insanely busy tonight, and Solomon is in rare form. I just need a break. Two minutes to breathe. No noise. Alone. A bit of fresh air.
The ring bumps against my chest, and just like every time I’ve come out into the alley for a break in the last week, I pull the chain over my head and slip the ring onto my finger. I turn my hand this way and that, looking at the strange jewelry on my finger catching the light. I’ve been married a week, and I only wear this ring when I’m guaranteed privacy, and even though this is all make-believe, it still sends a little thrill through me.
Nothing has changed, and yet absolutely everything has changed.
Yesterday my first monthly stipend for the ranch came in, and for the first time in a decade, I felt like I could breathe. I paid all my bills. Early. And still had some leftover. I don’t think that I’ve ever known that feeling before. At least not since my mom died. I’ve been scraping by to make ends meet while still trying to follow my dreams, and it has been exhausting.
But now…
Now I can relax and focus on my work, climb up the culinary ladder. So many young chefs are supported by their wealthy parents, and I’ve seen that advantage catapult them to success because they can focus on their work instead how they’ll pay the rent. And now it’s my turn. I can finally make decisions that are best for my career, rather than best for my measly bank account. This is a rare opportunity..
It’s like taking a deep breath after spending years underwater. Like a miracle. And it’s all because of the ring on my finger. I can’t wear it during my shift—cooking and jewelry don’t mix. So I slip it off my hand and back on the chain, and slip the chain back over my neck before going back to work.
I do what I need to do almost on autopilot because my thoughts are occupied with a certain husband that disappeared after our first kiss. It’s frankly embarrassing how many times I’ve relived that short kiss in the week since we’ve been married. It feels like every minute of every hour has been taken up reliving the rush of emotion that hit me when our lips met.
But it’s not just an emotional wave—it’s a physical one, too. And that kiss, the memory of it, I’ve been amplifying every detail I can remember. Turning it over like a pebble in my hand again and again, memorizing every edge, every angle. Examining each facet and savoring it.
I think about the way he smelled like open sky and winter nights in a cedar cabin. I remember the rough scratch of his beard where it was growing in, scraping across my lips and cheeks. The feeling of his fingers on the back of my neck holding me close with gentle pressure. The hard edges of callouses on his fingers. Hands like that could only come from hours of hard work in the hot sun.
Shit, the thought of Clayton sweating, shirtless, on that ranch? It does things to me. Things that I’m not really prepared to confront, but neither am I able to give them up. Even though I’m standing in front of a hot stove, preparing a sauce that needs to be watched like a newborn baby, my mind wanders back to that kiss. To those ten seconds a week ago. I should be paying attention to my work but I’m not. I’m sinking into the same daydream that I’ve been having the last few days.
It started with simple curiosity. Would the callouses that I felt on his fingers feel different elsewhere? Feel better elsewhere? When I’m alone in my bed, I let myself imagine what it would be like if that kiss had continued, and we had been alone. What would it be like to feel my husband undress me? Would his fingers shake as he unbuttoned my dress? Would he take his time and tease me? Or would he rush, unable to wait another second before he touched my bare skin?
Reallytouched me.
Would it feel like fire to have those hard fingers stroke across my ribs and touch my breasts? Would he be gentle?
No. I don’t think he would be.
Nothing about Clayton Burgess seems gentle to me. Everything about him seems harsh and rock hard. I’d be lying to myself if I believed that I didn’t want to feel every inch of that rock hard body against me and inside me. I can only imagine that sex with Clayton Burgess would be wild and rough and life changing.
He’s already changed my life completely and he’s only kissed me once.
No matter how much I want to see my brand-new husband again, I won’t. This is a contract. Business. Nothing more. I only knew him for an hour. There isn’t any reason for me to get hung up over it. It’s a new revenue stream. A direct deposit once a month.
But business arrangement or not, I can’t ignore the way my memory of him makes me shiver, and the fact that I plan to thoroughly try to get over him with my vibrator once I get home tonight.
I pour the sauce over the entrée, and a hand slides down my ass. For a split second I think that I’ve gone insane, and that my power of imagination has become so heightened that I can feel Clayton’s hand so clearly on my ass.
But then reality hits, and it’s not Clayton’s hand, it’s Solomon’s.
I blink, frozen.
Solomon’s hand is on my ass.
What the hell?
Moving on instinct, I slap his hand, forcing it away from my body as quickly as possible. “What the fuck are you doing?” I ask. It’s not loud enough to draw attention—the kitchen is already so loud—but I speak firmly.
He honestly looks shocked. “I thought I made it clear last week that I was interested.”
I shake my head. “And did I ever give any indication that I was interested back? I did not. Not only am I not interested but given that you’re the head chef and I’m a junior one, it’s beyond inappropriate.” I glance around, but there’s no one paying attention to us.
Solomon rolls his eyes. “Please, Rachel. I’ll define what’s appropriate and inappropriate in my kitchen. And I’m interested in you. I mentioned a promotion, and I plan on giving you one. You should consider being more grateful.”
Cold fear runs through me. “So you planned on giving me a promotion only because you’re expecting to sleep with me?”
He smirks. “Not because of that, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt. You’re a talented chef and I’m a talented chef. We’re both smoking hot. We could be the power couple that takes the culinary world by storm.” The smirk grows deeper, verging on a leer. “And if in the meantime I get you to scream my name, that’s just a bonus.”
“That is never going to happen,” I spit out, fighting against my instinct to gag. The first head turns toward us, and I see Solomon notice. “The kitchen is too hot. I need a minute.”
It takes every bit of my willpower not to sprint all the way through the kitchen to the alley. It isn’t until I burst through the door that I realize I’m holding my wedding ring through my shirt like it can protect me from the possessive looks that Solomon was giving me. The way he touched my ass as if he already owned it.
The cool air feels good in my lungs.
“Rough night?”
Miguel is leaning against the wall tapping out something on his phone. He isn’t looking at me but I’m sure the way that I’m gasping makes it clear that I just escaped the kitchen quickly. “You could say that.”
One of the busboys is in the corner as well, grinning. “You’re not alone. Miguel was just telling me that Solomon has been riding everyone’s ass all night.”
I flinch at his choice of words, but he isn’t wrong.
Miguel snorts. “Everyone but Rachel. But that’s because she’s already doing all of his work for him.”
“What?”
He laughs. “Come on, Rachel.”
“No, seriously, what are you talking about?”
Miguel looks up at me, surprised. Studying me, I see realization come over his face. “Oh my God, he has you running around doing so much shit that you don’t even realize it.”
“Miguel, what the hell?”
“This is your first big restaurant, right?”
I blush. “Yeah.” It’s the truth, but I don’t like to advertise it. I don’t want people thinking I can’t crack it just because it’s new to me.
“Well it’s not mine. And you’re really good. Everyone in the kitchen knows that. Everyone in the kitchen is there because they know that working for Solomon can help their careers, but they’re not there for him.” He shakes his head. “Do you know what head chefs do in actual restaurants, Rachel? They cook. And yes, they’re tasting the food and managing the kitchen and all the other things, but they cook the food too. It’s their food.”
“What’s your point?”
“That Solomon is a lazy piece of shit. The reason everyone gets so pissed at him is because he’s everywhere in everyone’s business all the time. But the only reason he’s able to do that is because he’s not busy. He gives everything that he should be doing to you, because you can handle it and you’d do it better than he could anyway.”
I feel myself go pale. He’s right. In the few smaller kitchens that I’ve worked in before I landed my job here, the head chefs had been far more hands-on with the food. I just assumed that because of Solomon’s status, that’s what celebrity chefs did. Managed. They’d already done the work so now everyone else could put in the work for them while they guided the lower ranks.
But Solomon never guides. He only criticizes. I blocked most of it out because this was a means to an end. A way to work up the ladder toward my own goals. But I do a hell of a lot of work in the kitchen. The restaurant is popular and always busy. And if everyone knows that I’m good…I swallow. “I just have to believe that if I’m as good as everyone thinks I am, my time will come,” I say quietly.
But will it? Now that I’ve rejected him?
I’d never even thought about Solomon that way, and until last week I had no idea that he thought of me like that. No matter what he says, it was inappropriate. My skin is still crawling from his hand on my ass.
Is Solomon the kind of man to recognize that he was wrong and give me the promotion that he promised me? Can he put aside the fact that I am not going to sleep with him?
Dread pools in my stomach.
No. No, he is not the kind of man.
A resounding crash comes from the kitchen, and all three of us sprint for the door without a second thought. The kitchen is in absolute chaos, a whole platter of food is on the floor, and Solomon’s face is so red that he looks like he might pass out. I hear him screaming as I run through the door.
“You.” He points at me, screaming so loudly that I have no doubt that the patrons can hear it. “You bitch, you did this on purpose.”
I freeze in place, unable to figure out what the hell I’ve done. The whole kitchen feels like it’s locked in a moment in time, everyone holding their breath to see what will happen.
My mouth is dry, but I meet Solomon’s gaze, the rage that I see there is terrifying. “What did I do?”
“You know that this is the signature dish in the restaurant. My signature dish. And you decided to ruin it—and my reputation—by putting the wrong sauce on the entrée?”
My eyebrows raise into my hairline. “I left the kitchen before the sauce was put on the entrée, Solomon.”
“Even if you didn’t put it on, you made it.”
Blood rushes to my face, and I know I must look as red as the sauce that is now spread all over the floor. “The sauce I made was the mushroom sauce. The same way I’ve been making it since you taught me how. The same way I’ve been making it for six months.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Melody step to my station, where the pot of sauce that I made is still sitting. The wrong sauce was on the entrée. But I’m not the one that put it there. Solomon is the one who did the final touches on the dishes. The one thing he still does because he wants control over how they look.
Everyone in the kitchen knows that. And if what Miguel said was true, that everyone in this shockingly silent kitchen knows how capable I am, then everyone knows that this isn’t my mistake.
Solomon laughs, maniacally. “You’re nothing, Rachel. This is a pathetic play to get back at me because I wouldn’t sleep with you for a promotion you haven’t earned.”
Rage tints my vision, and I hear gasps from my coworkers. I’m done with this shit. I’m done being nice. I’m done rolling over and putting up with Solomon’s abuse. My bills are taken care of now. I don’t have to worry about being on the street if I don’t have this job. “Oh really? I thought it was your hand that I had to push off my ass ten minutes ago.” I yank the necklace off my neck and put the ring on, holding it up for him to see. “Newsflash, asshole, I’m married.”
Solomon freezes, and then pure hatred spreads in his eyes. Rage like I’ve never seen. For a split second I wonder if I shouldn’t have told him that—if I maybe pushed him over the edge. But I don’t have time to wonder. He grabs a steak from the counter next to him and hurls it at me with a roar.
I catch it. Your reflexes have to be good working in a kitchen, and I don’t think twice before I hurl it back at him. His reflexes are shit. Yet another sign that he’s lost his touch and is riding on everyone else’s coattails.
The steak connects with his face in a satisfying smack.
Unbuttoning my chef’s coat, I drop it to the floor, and walk away, stopping only to grab my bag on the way out. I don’t need to say a word for everyone to know that I’m never coming back.
