Heat: A Bad Boy Chef Romance by Lila Moore Page B

talking about. “Just you.”
    There was a knock at the door. Had there been a knock earlier? I hadn’t heard it. When Moreau was inside me, the world faded away. All I could feel was the rush of heat stirring every cell of my body to life. I squeezed my thighs together.
    “I should answer that,” I said, not wanting to get up.
    The person at the door pounded loudly, like they were the cops. I stood up on shaky legs. A fresh chill shot up my spine. Moreau smiled at the sight of me, trembling like a newborn fawn.
    I pushed my dress down and rearranged the top. I was sure I looked disheveled, but I didn’t care. I opened the door without checking the peephole first. Big mistake. Gwen greeted me with a scowling face. Her features were strangely pinched. Her big cheekbones gave her face a hollowed out look. She stared daggers at me.
    “I need to talk to Vincent,” she said.
    I started to lie. I was going to tell her he wasn’t here then slam the door in her face. Before I could open my mouth, she said: “I know he’s here.”
    How did she know that? The expression on my face must have given away the truth. Gwen didn’t wait to be invited inside. She pushed me out of the way and barged in. She only had to walk a couple feet to see Moreau lying shirtless on his back. There was no hiding in my tiny studio apartment. Not that Moreau was the kind of guy to run and hide. He sat up and faced Gwen.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “You can’t just muscle your way into Roche’s home.”
    “It appears that I can and that I did. The better question is what are you doing here? You were supposed to meet me tonight. Or did that slip your mind?”
    “I never agreed…”
    “Don’t. You absolutely did agree to meet me tonight. We were supposed to workout the problems with the restaurant. Apparently, fucking this dishwasher means more to you than the future of the restaurant.”
    “I’m not a dishwasher,” I said lamely.
    What a snob. If I was a dishwasher what difference did it make? Work is work. I suspected a spoiled, rich girl like Gwen didn’t understand that. She’d had everything handed to her in life. It was no surprise she looked down on people who worked hard for a living.
    Moreau jumped to his feet. My studio apartment was starting to feel seriously crowded.
    “You know that restaurant is my passion,” he said. “You’re just pissed off because you wanted me to come over and fuck you tonight. Instead I’m with Bea.”
    I blushed at hearing him call me Bea. Were we finally moving past the formality of referring to each other by our last names? Should I call him Vincent now? No, he hated his first name. Everyone called him Moreau- everyone except Gwen.
    “You’re fired,” she spat.
    “You can’t fire me,” Moreau protested.
    “I just did.”
    “You don’t have anyone to run your restaurant.”
    “On the contrary, I do.”
    “Who? No one knows the menu or the staff like I do. If you bring in some third rate outsider, the place will fold within a week.”
    “You greatly overestimate your value to the restaurant, Vincent. Everyone is replaceable. Besides, I’m not hiring an outsider. I’m hiring your former entrée preparer Marcel. He knows the menu like the back of his hand. He’s brilliant, only you failed to recognize it. He should have been given this little slut’s job, but you were thinking with your dick when you hired her.”
    The muscle in Moreau’s jaw tensed as he gritted his teeth. “I have a contract. You can’t just fire me.”
    “I’m within my grounds to fire you for negligence. Your contract is voided.”
    “Negligence? What the hell are you talking about?”
    “You let a tainted dish be served to a customer. In fact, I’m starting to think you did it on purpose. Working along with Roche, you conspired to hurt the restaurant and poison a customer by tainting a dish with old clam water.”
    “What are you talking about?” I demanded. “We didn’t do