The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,9

was that? I look down and see a massive New York City rat scrambling over my shoes.

Stifling a scream, I cling to my plates of dessert. Oh my God! Oh, my fucking God! They’re everywhere! The restaurant hasn’t seemed noticed yet, but I can see little feet and little bodies running rampant in the dining area.

I look around frantically, wondering how the fuck they got in. They seem to be spilling out from the back, maybe the bathrooms? I don’t have time to check. Stephen’s seen me and is waving me over.

I’m trembling so much I set down his plate with a loud thump, nearly spoiling the presentation.

“Sorry,” I wince, but he laughs.

“That’s alright, I think my crème brûlée ought to have some weight to it. Now, I know everyone hates this question, but just for me, tell me how they prepare this delicious dish.” The words slide from his mouth as he eyes me up again.

I hear his question, but my eyes are roaming all over the restaurant wondering who will notice first, and if we can keep it quiet for just another ten minutes. I know for a fact there were no rats when we moved in.

I mean, sure, every restaurant in New York has a mouse or twenty, and if you think they don’t, you’re mistaken. But not my place. It’s stuffed with copper wire, cayenne pepper, poison and traps, and everything you could need to go to war with the varmints.

I had pesticide people in here this morning, for God’s sake! I even had them redo the baseboards to check for any holes. This is fucking ridiculous, and also fucking impossible. Unless…

“Hey, if you don’t have the answer, we can always grab someone from the kitchen,” Stephen says, more politely than he usually would. I snap back to attention.

“Sorry about that,” I smile. “Um you asked about the crème brûlée?”

“I did indeed,” he says as he starts gently tapping the top of the hard sugar. It snaps under the pressure of the spoon, and he looks up to me with a satisfied, sexy grin. “I love doing that.”

Even in my horror, I can’t help but laugh. I love doing that, too. Stupid as it is, it’s one of the reasons it’s on the menu. I smile and tell him I’m pretty sure our head chef feels the same way. Maybe I’m getting too full of myself, but he seems almost charmed by me?

Is it possible I can keep him occupied enough that he won’t notice the fucking massive rats? I feel another scramble over my foot, and try not to let my face show my terror.

Goddammit, Stephen, just take a fucking bite already and end my misery!

Eight

Stephen

The only thing stopping me from completely pigging out on each dish that comes to me is the fact I’m on camera. At a certain point, I stop even trying to find fault with anything I’m tasting. In fact, I hope the meal goes on all night.

That’s due as much to the waitress as to the food though. It’s not just that she’s gorgeous. I’ve run restaurants in Los Angeles and New York City, and dined in major cities all over the world. The nature of those locales means the waitresses tend to be gorgeous.

There’s something more to this one though. Wish I could put my finger on it. Or my lips.

Easy, cowboy, I tell myself. Focus. You’re almost there.

Dessert is coming.

“Well,” I say to the camera, cocking one eyebrow in my mischievous way, “here comes the final course. Let’s see if they can stick the landing.”

I watch the waitress come toward me with a tiny, delicate dessert centered on a large plate. Her hands appear to be shaking, and she’s biting her lower lip. She’s actually nervous. It fills me with delight. Not the fact she’s nervous, but that she cares so much and looks so freaking adorable.

She can’t even look at me. Her eyes keep scanning the floor. I guess she knows this is a real make-or-break moment for her boss.

She finally looks at me as she sets down the plate. After I’ve cracked the top of the beautiful and delicious-looking crème brûlée, and exchanged quips, I grab my fork to dig in when –

“Ahhhhh!”

I know the shriek is from Nadia even before I turn to look. Somehow, she manages to tinge even a cry of alarm with her accent.

When I find her, she’s standing on top of her chair, swinging her purse at something on the floor.