Hard No: Secret Baby Enemies to Lovers Romance by Hazel Parker (fun to read txt) 📗

was serving just now. There’s still plenty to do…the dessert course has to be assembled, and I can always get a head start on the cleanup. Even though Stone had told me in an e-mail that he would have his people take care of the latter, I hope that if I package the leftovers up myself, he’ll let me keep them. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who raids the fridge in the middle of the night.

Not that there would be much to raid anyway. I had gotten a look at the inside of his refrigerator as a matter of course while I had been prepping and was monumentally unsurprised to find that I had plenty of space to work with—there was nothing in there, not even any condiments.

My chances of enjoying some truly high-end tequila later seemed to be looking up.

I sneak a look at my watch. Plenty of time before dessert is due. That’s a good thing because the bottle of water I have consumed while I work is announcing its presence rather loudly by this point. Normally, using a client’s facilities would be out of the question, one of those unspoken rules of private catering, but Stone’s assistant (I wasn’t about to think of him as his butler, but I supposed his job amounted to the same thing) had let me know where the bathroom was located. I took this as a sign that using it was okay.

Besides, I really wanted to see what a billion-dollar bathroom looked like.

I shut off the gas range and shuck out of my chef’s jacket. I’ll only be gone for a minute, but it’ll be nice to cool down a bit in the meantime.

There’s no dolphin-shaped fountain in the bathroom, but it’s still pretty close. The hand soap smells French, which is to say expensively pleasant. It makes my skin cry out at the pampering. I’m washing my hands, mentally going through the checklist of things that have yet to be done, when a piercing beeping begins to sound from another part of the house. Specifically, the direction of the kitchen.

I hustle from the bathroom back to the kitchen and see that my chances of cooling off are literally going up in flames. In my haste, I must not have turned the range off all the way, and it had ignited the jacket I left beside it. The garment is burning merrily, and the rest of the kitchen is quickly catching.

The room is filling with thick smoke. The alarm continues to bawl. Stone’s assistant runs into the room, casts a frenzied look at the pandemonium unfolding before him, then hauls out his phone to frantically dial 911.

Yes, I am most definitely not going to be enjoying a post-job tequila later tonight.

Chapter 2 - Trent

My date Jamie is an international professional model and about as interesting as wet chalk. We had been set up by friends, on what basis, I can’t tell. Apart from us both being single human beings, we don’t have anything at all in common.

What I can’t tell is whether this is actually her personality—or lack thereof—or if she just isn’t into me. Either way, this is our third date, and I feel like the night so far has pretty much told the tale. I had hoped that all of this would get her to open up, loosen up a little, but it appears that all of my planning is going to come to nothing.

The long silences between us are maddening. There are dozens of things I could otherwise be doing. Admittedly, all of them involve working, but they seem much more attractive than my current situation just the same.

“So,” I say. “Where’s your next modeling job? Somewhere exotic?”

Jamie nods. “Bali,” she answers but then volunteers no follow-up information.

“And will you be…accompanied? Other models, I mean?”

She shakes her head. “No, just me.”

There’s another agonizing lull in the conversation.

“So, how has your work been?” she asks at last.

“Keeps me busy. I suppose modeling does the same for you.”

“Yes,” she says.

When I can’t stand it anymore, I excuse myself with the pretense of checking on dinner and head for the kitchen.

The chef, White, had been a real chore to secure, having taken an excessive amount of time and effort before she’d come on board, but the word on the street that she was the best appears to be well-justified.

It looks like a bomb has gone off in the kitchen, but it is an orderly bomb. Everything is neatly laid out and within easy reach. I look appreciatively at the organization for a moment, then turn my attention to the chef herself.

She’s pleasant to look at, sporting some enticing curves and a narrow waist in spite of the unflattering nature of her chef’s jacket. Enough so that I’m curious as to what she looks like beneath. What I can see of her is intriguing. She makes Jamie look like a popsicle stick.

Ah, Jamie…I should be getting back to her. For the moment, however, it’s much more interesting to look at White.

Her hair is pulled back in a simple, no-nonsense ponytail, and I wonder what her hair would look like if it were allowed down around her shoulders. For now, though, it’s the way that she moves that holds my interest the most.

When we had met briefly upon her arrival, she had seemed a little awkward and insecure when she was introduced to me. This impression remained with her as my assistant, Curtis, led her off to the kitchen to begin work.

Now, though, she moves with a confidence that is fascinating. Her hands dance over the cutting board, her fingers plucking up ingredients and expertly distributing them as she needs them. If she makes a misstep anywhere, I surely don’t see it.

“How’s progress?” I ask. I’m a little amused when