I finally couldn't resist touching him, not another second. I just had to feel what would happen. Even through the layers of his suit coat and shirt, I can feel a surge of electricity when my fingers make contact with the rock-hard arm of Tim Stag.
If I didn't need this job so badly, I'd say screw it and shove him against the wall right here in the break room. His grey eyes seem to shift with his mood, looking out from a sweep of short, chestnut hair. Right now, I want to brush that hair back from his skin and shove my tongue down his throat. But, duty calls, and so I pull myself together and decide I'm going to land this job with this brooding, handsome man as my boss.
"Mr. Stag," I say, and his wide eyes meet mine, impossible to read. I pull back my hand and gesture around me. "You're going to have to knock down a wall and put in a serving line." He nods, but doesn't say anything, so I continue. "We can put glass-front coolers over here where I can keep grab-n-go meals and snacks ready. A long row of tables down the middle should be nice. With the wall gone, you'll get natural light and a view of the Point," I say, nodding toward where the city's three rivers converge outside our office.
"We can even do some booths along that wall, if you ever wanted to have clients here for lunch. Or just want more private conversation space."
"And are you able to oversee that renovation? Manage everything you need to get started?" His voice is so deep. I long to put my hand against his chest and feel it reverberate.
My eyes go wide at his question, though. I mean, yeah. I can figure all that stuff out. My dad works construction and my brother sells industrial kitchen appliances. I just can't believe I might get to do something like that. I was sure my first cooking gig would be frying burgers at one of the sports stadiums. When my favorite instructor told me her best friend's boss was looking for a corporate chef, I read absolutely everything I could find about this place.
Tim Stag is a hotshot lawyer. Stone cold. He's never lost a case and managed to land the players associations for the professional hockey, football, and baseball teams here in Pittsburgh. He finished college and law school early, nailed the bar exam, and thinks he needs a corporate chef to help his company stand out. Maybe he doesn't know how much he stands out? His photos online did him no justice. The man is a fox. I realize he's still waiting for me to answer. "I mean, do you have the budget for that sort of project?"
He waves his hand as if that's irrelevant. Must be nice, I think. He leans past me to grab a bottle of water from the counter and I smell him--some sort of sporty deodorant mixed with the clean smell of nice soap and…something uniquely male. There's a power scent that's 100% Tim Stag. I watch his Adam's apple move as he swallows a sip of the water. "What I don't have, Ms. Peterson, is time. You can work with Donna to start the renovation. The job is yours if you want it."
"Really? You didn't even really ask me anything. Don't you want to know, I don't know, what my philosophy is? Or if I'm a vegan or something?"
He raises one dark eyebrow at me, his eyes questioning. "Are you a vegan?"
I laugh. "You think I'd be shaped like this if I never ate cheese?" I immediately regret drawing his attention to my body, which is thankfully masked in my chef whites. I flush. "No," I quickly correct myself. "I'm definitely an omnivore." I hold my hand out for a shake, saying, "I'd love to join Stag Law. When can I start?"
I brace myself for the jolt I know is coming when he returns my handshake. I feel the sizzle right through to my core when our skin makes contact, just like I felt when I first walked into his office. I hold his dark gaze and smile, imagining what it will be like to see him every day, lost in a fantasy where I feed him something delectable and he groans with pleasure.
He frowns, looking around. "Can you start right away? I guess you can't do anything with what's here now?"
I can't help but laugh, because I cook meals for my family most days in a space half this size. "What time do you want me to serve lunch?"
He walks me down the hall and leaves me with Donna, who sets me up with a corporate credit card. Two hours later, I'm plating tiny sandwiches with fruit skewers, dishes of hummus with sliced veggies and pita wedges. I've got several carafes of cucumber water scattered around the room just as the first curious employees start poking in their heads. "Help yourself," I tell them.
Soon I'm chatting with everyone, asking them for their favorite snacks and taking notes about their eating habits, things to consider about their work day. I hit it off with a woman named Juniper, who says she's new here, too. "I'm not quite sure what to make of the boss man," I confide in Juniper, smiling as she takes a hearty portion of the various sandwiches.
She nods. "I know. He's sort of hard to read. I was offered this position after a phone interview, so I wasn't sure what to expect, but he is assigning me to represent his brother, so he must trust me!"
I see Donna enter the room and I pat Juniper's arm, which is surprisingly firm. "Hey I gotta go talk to Donna, but I'll talk to you later, ok? Nice biceps by the way."
Juniper laughs. "I row crew," she tells me. "You should check it out sometime. You could be our coxswain."
Vowing to google that later, I head off with Donna to make a plan for the renovation, as well my ideas to feed everyone while that's taking place. I tell Donna that I think we should order biodegradable plates and cutlery until we can get a dishwasher set up. She just nods and tells me to do whatever I think is best. How amazing is that? Three hours ago I was just a jobless graduate from the shabby part of Highland Park. Now, I have my very own office. I can hardly believe my luck. I'm 24 years old and the week I finish culinary school, I land my first full-time job with total autonomy and an unlimited budget. I definitely owe my instructor a flower delivery for recommending me!
My first order of business is to call up my dad--who else would I hire for a construction project? I decide to use the office phone to see if I can surprise my father. When he answers with a chipper, "This is Bob. How can I help you?" I respond with, "Yes, this is Stag Law calling. We're looking for Robert Peterson."
There's a pause on the line and Dad says, "Alice? Sweetie is that you?"
I share the great news with my dad. I know I'm talking fast, but I can't help it. I tell him that I got the job (at the top of the salary range for corporate chefs, too) and free reign over the renovation to get their kitchen up to snuff. "We are going to hire you to do the project for us, Dad! Can you come take a look?"
"Well, Pumpkin, that is fantastic," he says. "You know, we just finished a renovation in that building, too. Some insurance company redid their layout. Why don't I bump my first estimate tomorrow and drive you in to work and take a gander at it?"
Dad asks some basic questions about the project and jokes that I should just make everyone garlic wings with extra ranch to drip all over their designer suits. "Very funny, Dad. But I can make those for you tonight if you want. We could celebrate, get some growlers from Grist House."
"Anything you want, Pumpkin. You know, your mother would be so proud of you." His voice cracks a little and I can tell he's tearing up. My mom passed away from breast cancer 8 years ago. Things have been rough for us since then. Medical bills almost crushed us and we lost Mom anyway. I don't know how my dad managed to scrape together tuition for me to go to culinary school. I kept my job waiting tables and went part-time for years until I finally finished.
I think about my mom's words during our last conversation. She told me to go after my dreams, even if it felt difficult. "I know she'd be proud, Dad, but thanks. I want to get things set up here for tomorrow, but I should be home around 5:30 I think." We hang up, and I get to work stocking the Stag Law break room with snacks and muffins for the morning. I've started stacking all my new equipment in my office, both because there's nowhere else to put it and because I still can't believe it's all mine. I was dancing through the aisles at Restaurant Depot outfitting the basic kitchen, placing my order for spices and bulk produce. Soon, I'll go meet with one of the local farms and set up an account for herbs and eggs. Oh, and dairy.
I'm so lost in my plans I don't notice Tim Stag watching me. When I look up, realizing I've been singing out loud, his intense expression freezes me in my tracks.