“I wasn’t in the nightclub by choice,” he says.“We were entertaining potential clients and one of the executives cornered and groped a cocktail waitress. The first time, she pushed him off with a smile and got back to work. The second time, she became firmer. The third, I intervened because I simply couldn’t stand for it, potential billion-dollar deal or not.”
I’m truly taken aback. I think back to the Merc and why he threw the first punch at the biker. Not because he was personally insulted, but because the biker disrespected his girlfriend. “So that’s what you do now? Defend women’s honor?”
It comes out more bitter than I intended.
“Men in my pay grade behave badly. I dislike it. And I refuse to become one of them.”
“Well…” I move back, creating needed space between us. “I’m not trying to start anything. I was genuinely curious.”
“I understand you’re upset. I wish I could put the man I am today into the boy I was when I hurt you. I would’ve punched him, too.”
I raise my head, meeting his eye and sharing in the perplexity of this strange, sudden moment of revelation. The type of unraveling that creates an unwanted bond.
Until we’re interrupted by a smooth, velvet baritone asking, “Are you the last of them? Class has started.”
I break my stare from Stone’s, but not before I notice his jaw cutting forward to make room for his massive frown.
Turning in the same direction, I face the man who just beckoned us forward.The nameToussaintis embroidered in black on his chef’s coat. His expression mirrors Stone’s.
Chef Toussaint is nothing like what I imagined a French chef opening his doors in Falcon Haven instead of a big city would be.
My new teacher is young, tattooed, and gorgeous.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Stone
Shame is like an exotic pet I have no business owning. It rubs up against me all wrong, with a spiked tail and scaled skin. I don’t appreciate the way it’s staring me in the face, either, but somehow Noa brought it out.
Why did you hate a man so much you wanted to humiliate him?
She asked it with an unblinking stare. Like she saw right through me and pulled out the teen idiot who would do anything short of setting himself on fire to get her attention and impress her. All kinds of excuses bubble up, such ashe’s a privileged imbecileandBradley Mitchell deserved more than facial reconstruction.And especially,I will not stand by and see a woman humiliated in favor of a man’s ego.
All but that last one is something an innocent would say to defend their actions. I’m not innocent.
Standing before Noa at this moment, at least two heads taller and definitely two lengths bigger than her toned form, and be stared down by her, is in a word, humbling.
Luckily, I don’t have to roll around in the muck too long once we’re distracted by a taller, darker, inkier version of …myself.
I almost choke on the instant territorial growl that comes forth as soon as I see him giving Noa the once-over.
Chef folds his arms over his chest and lowers his chin like he’s guarding the kitchen doors and hasn’t yet decided if we can enter.
I’m not certain what I expected a cooking teacher to look like. Maybe like that chef inRatatouille, with a tall French hat, curly black mustache, and portly belly. Someone jovial and heavily accented.
The last person I wanted was a guy approximately my age, with wavy, thick black hair, cheekbones that rival mine,dimpleswhere mine are, and one fucking additional dent in the middle of his chin. Muscles are obvious even through his apron jacket.
Well, he has one thing I don’t. Tattoos. Black tendrils stick out from the cuffs of his jacket and indecipherable symbols decorate his fingers between the joints.
My vision shrivels, with him at the center.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” Noa immediately apologizes.
Of course she does.
“You don’t exactly leave explicit instructions at the front on where to go, not that you advertised very well before that,” I add.
Noa frowns up at me and elbows my side. I ignore her.
