He loosens his hold on me, so I can stand up, and the expression in his eyes appears as conflicted as the thoughts in my mind. “I’ll leave first, then you can come out in a few minutes.”
I nod in agreement as I rise to my feet on slightly wobbly legs. “Ethan?”
He turns to me as his hand reaches for the door handle. “Yes?”
I point at the hand sanitizer dispenser affixed to the wall next to the door frame.
He dispenses a few foamy pumps into his palm. “I knew that thing would come in handy.”
I shake my head at the awful pun as he exits the office, then I collapse into the chair Ethan just vacated. It’s still warm and smells of him. Pulling my feet onto the seat, I hug my knees to my chest and smile as I wait for my turn to leave the office.
After I’ve replayed the feeling of Ethan’s touch in my mind at least a dozen times, I open the door slowly and peek out into the corridor. It’s empty.
Slipping out into the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway, I quietly close the office door behind me. But when I turn around to head to the front of the house, Ollie is standing outside the break room, watching me.
She looks confused as she glances between me and the staff door. “I thought I saw Ethan head toward the bar. Were you alone in his office?”
I shake my head adamantly. “No, I was just…checking to see if he was in there,” I say, both impressed and ashamed by my ability to lie so readily. “Nope. Not there.”
Ollie nods and, still looking a bit skeptical, heads for the staff door. “Ethan just informed me you’re starting in the kitchen next week.”
I follow her into the dining room. “Yeah, he said it’ll be part-time, while I’m training.”
“Training for what?”
I turn my head at the sound of Sandro’s voice on my right. I want to answer his question, but the sight of Mario—and Ethan standing next to him—makes the words catch in my throat.
Mario’s shoulder-length hair is pulled back in the usual low ponytail, and he’s wearing a customary scowl on his long, angular face.
Ethan doesn’t hesitate. “She’s doubling with you starting next week,” he says to Mario, his tone uncharacteristically leaving no room for negotiation.
The rigidity in Ethan’s words is not lost on Mario. “So, I don’t have any say in this?”
Ethan’s face is impassive, almost bored, as he replies, “You can say whatever you’d like, but it won’t change anything. This is the condition I agreed to when I hired Alice. If you have a problem with it, I’m sure Shanice would be happy to double with her instead.” He and Mario engage in a brief staring contest before Ethan speaks again. “We good?”
Mario glances in my direction, then he nods. “Yes, Chef.”
They resume their discussion about a new bourbon cocktail to compliment the wood-fired Tomahawk steak, which has become a fast favorite of Forked’s clientele. I’m tempted to join them, to soak up as much knowledge as I can before I start training next week. But Ollie wants to discuss the day’s specials and wine selections.
As Ollie talks about the various preparations we’ll be offering for today’s monkfish, I steal occasional glances in Ethan’s direction. His arms are crossed over his chest as he chats with Sandro and Mario. I wonder if he’s thinking about what we did in his office.
As if he can read my mind, he glances in my direction as he dips his middle finger into a shot glass of bourbon, which Sandro has just offered to him. Ethan slips the finger inside his mouth, and his eyes close as he savors the fiery liquid.
Suddenly, the world is moving in slow motion.
My face flushes with heat at the look of pure pleasure as a grin spreads across his face. He nods slowly as he opens his eyes and licks his lips. Sandro and Mario appear pleased with Ethan’s reaction to the bourbon. My eyes widen as Sandro reaches for the shot.
And, suddenly, time is now moving way too fast as I realize Sandro is going to touch the glass.
I open my mouth to shout a warning. Thankfully, I don’t manage to get any sound out before Ethan pours the shot of bourbon into his mouth and pretends to accidentally drop the glass on the floor, preventing Sandro from touching it.
I clutch my chest with relief at the sound of Ethan’s sexy laughter as he kneels to clean up the mess.
“Alice?”
“Yeah,” I mutter dreamily as I turn my attention back to Ollie.
She narrows her eyes as her gaze flits back and forth between Ethan and me. “Are you and Ethan…?”
I hope I appear as shocked as I would feel if this were a lie. “What? Are you crazy?”
Ollie flashes me a knowing smile and my stomach drops.
“We’re not. I swear we’re not.”
“Sure,” Ollie says, winking conspiratorially.
The relief I felt a moment ago is washed away by a flood of panic. “Please don’t say anything to Mario.”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Do you really think I’d discuss someone else’s sex life with Mario? Please don’t offend me like that.”
I let out an enormous sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
But Ollie doesn’t look quite as relieved as I am. “I’m not the one you have to worry about,” she says, nodding toward the bar.
Warner has joined the other three men. I’m not certain, but it appears as if he’s holding a cell phone in the air as he looks directly at me.
“What is he doing?” I ask almost to myself.
“Is this yours?” Warner calls out to me.
I blink a few times and squint my eyes to get a better look at the object in his hand, and my heart stops when I recognize the light-coral phone case.
He races toward me, the sunlight glinting off his braces as he grins broadly. “I found it in Ethan’s office,” he says loud enough for the entire dining room to hear.
I flash him a tight smile, not bothering to look in Mario or Ethan’s direction as I take the phone from Warner’s hand. “Thanks.”
Chapter 14
ALICE
“Grab the bottle of champagne from the fridge,” my mom says as she stirs the pot of pozole, a Mexican soup made with tender chunks of pork shoulder, hominy, and a spicy broth.
“Damn, Mom. Champagne and Dad’s favorite soup? What’s the occasion?”
Grabbing the bottle of champagne, I reach for the cupboard above the dishwasher to retrieve some glasses.
My mom tastes the broth, then reaches for the salt shaker. “I thought you knew.”
I get a strange uneasiness as my imagination runs away with me, and my head fills with visions of my father asking my mom to help him celebrate his last days as a free man before he murders Ethan.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, placing the champagne and the glasses on the dinner table.
She stirs the soup and tastes the broth again. “Your restaurant did well last week. They’re moving into the final phase of funding.”
I sidle up next to my mom so she can feed me a spoon of the soup. “A little more salt,” I say, heading for the cupboard above the toaster to retrieve the bowls. “Why are we celebrating something so boring?”