Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance (13 page)

The next day is fucking
brutal.
All that obnoxious and pompous shit I say about kitchens being “battlefields” and me being “the general”? Yeah, well, along with the pretentious war analogies comes the fact that sometimes you’re seriously in the middle of a fucking war zone.

So yeah, fuckin’
brutal
. And it’s not just because I’ve been up half the night at the club with Danny and then the other half of it with a rock hard cock and wildly conflicting thoughts about Chloe. It’s also not just because me teasing her last night as payback led to her being in an absolutely
horrid
mood today. Beyond all that shit, we get fuckin’
crushed
during service.

And I mean just bent over a barrel crushed.

I’m short a dish guy for the night, and the new waitress, Delia, is
Fucking. My. Shit. Up.
Like, all Goddamn night. And honestly, the only reason I don’t end up throwing a fucking plate of food at her head is that she’s hot as hell.

Chloe ignores me, muttering only the bare “yes” and “no” at roared commands during the rushes; a noticeable absence of the word “chef” in there, but we’re so buried I have to let it slide. Beyond that, she fuckin’ ignores me all night whenever I try and get a rise out of her, which isn’t very fun at all. After all, what’s the fun in teasing this girl if she doesn’t react?

But then, what she
is
reacting to is Marco. And
oh
does she react to that crooked little shit; way more than I want her to.

The guy is a fuckin’ shark, and I should know because I pretty much taught him every part of his game. But he’s all over her station the whole shift, cracking jokes to her when he thinks I’m not watching, passing her little bits of steak or some bullshit when I’m roaring at my fish guy; basically flirting like the little devil he is. 

I make the executive decision that murdering my grill man in the middle of a Saturday night service
probably
isn’t the most prudent of plans, but I file it away for later after I congratulate myself on my own restraint. 

*****

It’s afterwards, when I’m in my office slumped in my chair with a glass and a bottle of something brown and Irish in front of me that the door just opens.

No knock, no “hey chef”, it just opens. And of course, it’s Chloe.

“Can I fucking help you?” I scowl, pouring a splash of whiskey into the glass tumbler on my crowded desk.

“Yeah, the changing room is full of sweaty cooks.”

I look at her in mock shock and surprise, “It
is?!
”

“Cute,” she mutters, narrowing her eyes at me, “Look I need to change, so…”

“What,
here?
”

“Yes
here
.”

I raise a brow at her, trying to figure out what game she’s playing at here. “You don’t just barge into the chef’s office without knocking, Chloe.”

She rolls her eyes, fuckin
rolls her eyes
at me.

“What happened to all that ‘stays in the kitchen’ bullshit?” She says, glaring at me.

“We’re not in the kitchen, we’re in the kitchen
office
,” I shrug and toast my glass to her before taking a sip, grinning as she rolls her eyes again

“Well, deal with it.” 

The grin drops from my lips. On the one side, she’s testing me here, but the prospect of her changing in my small office right in front of me suddenly
far
outweighs the cons of her acting up. Plus no one’s here to see her sass back the chef anyways, so whatever. 

She starts to undo her whites before she glares at me, “Um, some privacy?”

I laugh out loud. “Are you serious? It’s
my
office.”

“Look just turn around, God.”

“Whatever.” I turn around,
barely
, still watching her out the corners of my eyes. Her white kitchen jacket comes off, and I take a big sip of my drink as my eyes strain to the point of hurting; all just to catch of glimpse of her.

Damn, this girl is sexy as
sin
. And she’s wearing this black bra that contrasts fucking phenomenally with her skin. Creamy skin that’s covered in this thin sheen of sweat from the rough night; that has my pulse pumping a little faster. She turns away from my desk and drops her pants, and
holy shit
, there’s a little black thong to match. 

This fuckin girl’s been working ten feet away from me with
that
on underneath that baggy kitchen uniform? Fuckin’
hell
.

She bends over a little to grab her bag of clothes off the chair she dropped it in, and right then, I stop even pretending I’m looking away. This girl is driving me
crazy
with that ass and that- 

Fuck
. Then it hits me, and it’s all clear.

She’s fucking with me. Chloe’s trying to mess with me as much as I messed with her the night before, even if
that
was payback for
her
fucking with me before that. But whatever, she’s trying to one up me, but two can play that fucking game

“Yeah I should get out of here too,” I say, knocking back the last of my whiskey. I stand, and before she can say shit, I just start taking my own clothes off. She whirls in her undies, her mouth wide open and suddenly looking worried as she realizes her little plan is collapsing around her.

“Um, what are you doing?”

“Changing.”

“
Now?
”

I shrug, shooting her my most winning smile. “Hey, the changing room downstairs in communal. It’s just fuckin kitchen culture, sweatheart; everyone just changes around each other.”

She crosses one arm across her chest, as if her arm does anything to cover those glorious fuckin’ tits, while the other one holds a t-shirt in front of her panties. “Yeah but, it’s just you and me in here.”

I smirk at her, “So why would
that
be a problem,
sis
? 

She wrinkles her nose and glares at me; defiantly. I grin, and before she can shoot any sass back my way, I just drop my pants. And then she’s just staring; poor thing. She’s just staring at my body, her eyes quickly darting across my chest and my tattoos and my kitchen scars. 

And my package. She’s like, completely staring
staring
at the semi-bulge in my jockeys. 

A grin teases my lips, and I arch a brow at her, “Who’s being unprofessional now, sweetheart?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re staring.” 

“I am
not.
”

“You are so.”

She blushes fiercely. “Well Jesus, I’m not the one stuffing the front of my underwear for attention, Oliver.”

I laugh; “Says the girl wearing a matching lacy black bra and
thong
to work in a kitchen.” I smirk. “And it ain’t stuffed, luv,” I say with a wink.

She blushes even more, as if that was even possible, and her eyes dart back down then up to my face. 

Shit
, there’s that look again. It’s the same innocent look from before. Back when we were in school. Back when I was visiting on that exchange trip. And it’s making me hard. 

Before I know it, I’m moving towards her, eyeing her and seeing she’s not pulling back, “I thought you came in here to get changed.” 

She bites her lip, her eyes flashing around mine. 

“You distracted me,” she says, that defiance still lacing her words, but they’re coming out whispered.

“Apparently. How’s that working for you?”

“What?”

“Being distracted.” I arch my brow at her as I nod down at my rapidly growing cock.

Chloe bites her lip, her chest rising and falling quickly. “It’s…” She trails off, her tongue darting out to lick her lips, “
Distracting
.”

The tongue is my undoing. The black bra and panties, the whispered words, the catching of her breath; all of it takes me to the fucking boiling point, but it’s that little dart of her tongue across her lips that pushes me over the edge. 

She moans as I close the distance between us, and as I kiss her, I can feel her just melt into me.

We’re both gasping, our mouths opening for each other’s tongues instantly, moaning into each other as I sear my lips against hers.

“We-” she whimpers, kissing me fiercely before pulling back again, “We shouldn't do this!” She gasps, kissing me harder. “We can’t do this!”

But then she’s still kissing me, and when I don’t respond and I slide my hands up her sides and around her body, she moans and sinks against me. I move her hand to my cock, letting her feel how hard I am, and fucking
loving
the way she whimpers as her fingers curl around my girth.

She starts to stroke me through my jockeys like that, and my hand quickly moves to press against her mound, feeling how soaking wet she is through her panties. We’re moaning and gasping together, stroking each other with our underwear still on.

I start to slip my fingers under, feeling her tense and then moan as I slide against her lips, and then- 

A knock at the door.

Are you fucking kidding me?!

Chloe jumps away from me like I just electrocuted her and snatches her clothes up from the chair. I whirl at the door, ready to fucking murder whoever it is. 

“Chef?” The voice calls through the door; “Chef, I need you to sign off on that hood repair for the grill.”

It’s Ernie, my nighttime porter, otherwise known as “the guy that cleans the whole fucking kitchen after we fuck it up all night.” Also otherwise known as the guy I probably can’t kill and still run a functional kitchen.

Goddamnit.

I whirl towards Chloe. “Stay here,” I hiss, before turning back to the door as I yank my pants back on and grind my teeth. 

“Hang on, mate. Just changing.”

I pull a shirt on. “
Stay here
,” I say to her quickly again, seeing her eyes go wide and her cheeks bright pink and flushed as she nods at me and hides behind my desk as I slip out the door.

*****

I’m back in three minutes, but of course, by then, she’s gone. And at that point, I start to seriously wonder how long I can go with the world’s biggest case of blue balls before I need to go to the fuckin’ hospital.

It’s the constant back and forth with him that has me tripped up, and it feels like neither of us can win. We’re friendly and then we’re not; we’re hanging out and having a great time and then he’s cold and back to iron Chef Oliver, barking orders and ignoring me. 

And I know some - okay, a lot - of that is my fault, but c’mon, I’m not leading him on or anything. This isn’t something that “can” happen by any standard. Beyond the fact that we work together, there’s our history, however small. And, I mean hello, stepbrother? No way. 

Work is
tough
the next night. A food blog with a huge following just put a grand review of
Jolie
up, and so even the normal 2 hour wait is practically
double
that from the moment we open for service.

Everyone’s on edge anyways, but Oliver’s extra quick to jump down people’s throats; barking orders left and right and roaring like a mad-man for most of service. On that though, I’ll give him a pass. Working at his dad’s restaurant might not be his end goal, but cooking certainly is, and if Oliver is nothing else, he’s passionate about what he does.