Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance (36 page)

T
he 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.

* * *

I
t’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.

I
t’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.

I blush slightly at the thought of some other “passions” from the night before, but I quickly push that aside as the general chaos of the kitchen swallows me back up.

It’s the giggling that gets my attention finally,
just
as we’re starting to wind down. I look up, and my eyes instantly narrow on
Delia
, the bouncy little blonde waitress who
somehow
has managed not to get fired yet.

She’s also somehow managed to get Oliver wrapped around her fucking pinky, and
that
gets to me a whole lot more than the fact that she’s still a waitress here.

If he’s yelling at everyone else all night and generally acting like a drill sergeant, he’s
all
smiles with her; all charm, all little jokes and winks. Actually come to think of it, I’m not sure who’s wrapped around
whose
finger there. Either way, it’s got me quietly seething in the corner, much more than it should, given my whole diatribe earlier to him about this ‘not being a thing’.

But there I am, skulking in the corner and glaring at him as he leans against the service window and cracks jokes with Delia; Delia who’s got one button too many undone to be remotely appropriate in this sort of restaurant, I might add.

“Oh, him?” I turn to see Marco grinning at me from his spot by the grill. He smirks and nods at Oliver. “Oy, he’s the
master
, isn’t he.”

“What,
chef
?”

Marco laughs, his dark, brooding eyes sparkling and that strong jaw cracking into a wide, white smile. “Well, sure, but I’m talking about being master of a different kind of dish.” He gestures with his chin at Delia. “Oh he
does
go through them,” he says with a dark chuckle.

I scowl, feeling the anger rising up inside, and again, that damned confusion about
why
I’m even angry about a man
I don’t even want
flirting with another girl. I mean what do I care?

Why
do I care?

Marco glances at me and laughs, “Oy, sorry, you probably don’t want to hear about his conquest do you? I mean your two families being so close and all, a bit too familiar, yeah?”

“Yeah, not really,” I say icily, trying to shrug as nonchalantly as possible.

The ticket printer spits out a quick ticket, followed quickly by Ian, the Maître d’, bustling into the kitchen to announce that it’s the very last table.

Thank
God.

Pasta, too, which means the rest of us besides poor Julie on steam line can start wiping down and stocking before getting the hell out of here.

Which of course, also means getting the hell away from Oliver flirting with that fucking girl.

Marco swears a relief under his breath and suddenly elbows me. I turn to see him grinning as he pulls a little flask out of his apron pocket and winks at me.

I can’t help but giggle as he wags his eyebrows at me.

“Little nip to speed things along?” I shoot a quick glance at Oliver, who I’m sure would have something to say about his cooks drinking before they’re done, but he’s too busy sticking his fucking eyes down Delia’s cleavage to notice.

I turn back to dark, dangerous, handsome Marco and shrug. “Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

“Atta girl!” He grins, “Listen, we’re going to the pub after for a few, you should come with.”

I know what an invitation for drinks means from a man who looks like Marco; from a man who looks at me the hungry way he’s looking at me right now. And part of me wants to jump at the idea of getting Oliver out of my head. Part of me says “why the hell not”, when he’s made it so perfectly clear that his only interest in me is to wind me up so that he can shit all over me. And of course, on top of that, it’s not like there’s anything that
can
or
could
ever happen with him. I mean our parents are getting married for crying out loud. He’s my boss, and a total man-whore, and probably has a rap-sheet from when he was younger that’s longer than his-

I shake my head to quickly get the thought of Oliver’s, well,
anything
out of it.

But at the same time, I’ve got a feeling I know
just
how he’d react to me and Marco, even if it
is
just “going out for some drinks.” An alpha caveman like Oliver? I roll my eyes; I can’t even
imagine
the macho bullshit that would come out of that.

I turn to Marco and try and smile as I shake my head, “Thanks, Marco, but I don’t think I-”

The sound of Delia’s high-pitched little giggle rolls across the kitchen, and I whirl around to see Oliver on the other side of the line now, his arm draped over her shoulder and that cocky, smoldering, panty-melting grin on his face. He looks up for
just
a second and catches my dagger-look before he just turns back to her and winks.

I can feel my hands clenching at my sides as I turn back towards Marco, suddenly forcing a smile to my face. “You know what, I’d
love
to.”