Hi and welcome! The Work Wife, my all new standalone, romantic comedy releases in just SIX days! Are you excited?! I will be posting one chapter per day until release day (February 26th). Today is the first official installment but if you missed yesterday’s cover reveal, you may want to click here to read the prologue. Happy reading ❤
The Work Wife
C.J. Martín
All rights reserved © 2019
Present Day
My advice? Never fall in love with a married man. Don’t spend your days pining away for the most perfect, most handsome, most infuriating man you’ll ever meet, because his heart belongs to someone else. Don’t fantasize about his beautiful, full lips pressed against your skin, or the sexy way his brows furrow when he concentrates. And definitely don’t imagine waking up next to him, naked, wrapped in silky soft, one-thousand count, organic Egyptian cotton sheets that smell like lavender, while a gentle summer breeze billows the sheer curtains…
“Earth to Charli.” The loud thunk of a cardboard box hitting the wooden bar jolts me from my stupor. Joe, our main bartender, waves a hand in front of my face, and I straighten my spine. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I grab the rag from the countertop, barely resisting the urge to twist it in my hands. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs. “You looked a little out of it.” He hefts another box onto the bar top. “Do you think you could cover my shift tonight?”
Internally, I cringe, but outwardly, I fake smile. Sure, as the food and drink manager, I’m knowledgeable about the liquors we stock, the vendors we have contracts with, scheduling conflicts…but bartender extraordinaire I am not. Even if my skills weren’t subpar (they definitely are), Mecca’s fancy drinks specials are sophisticated enough to have even the most skilled mixologist scratching his head. Upscale restaurants like Mecca are awash with high-end clientele who consistently order top-shelf, high-priced drinks like they’re going out of style.
I square my shoulders to disguise my hesitation. “I don’t think—”
Joe cuts me off before I have a chance to finish.
“Tonight’s drink specials aren’t crazy hard.” He tosses a laminated placard my way, and I scramble to catch it.
Even though I’m the one who printed the menus, my eyes give a precursory skim over the list as if seeing it for the first time.
“Please.” His eyes droop into the saddest, most pathetic puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen. “Xavier cried all night. I’m running on fumes.”
“God.” I roll my eyes. “Way to play the ‘We just had a baby’ card.”
He chuckles. “I never said I fought fair.”
“Ugh. You’re the worst,” I tease, tossing the rag on the counter before reaching into the box he’s just cut open. “You know I’ll do it.”
He pats my upper arm. “And you, my dear, have a heart of gold.”
“It’s my gift.” I stand on tiptoes to set a bottle of Pernod on the highest shelf, but I lose my grip on the slim neck, and it slides through my fingers. Before I can catch it, the bottle crashes to the floor. Shards of glass splinter in all directions, and sweet, sticky liquid seeps into the tile cracks. The unmistakable heavy scent of anise fills the air.
“Shit.” I grab a terry cloth rag from the counter.
Joe bends to help, picking up the tiny slivers of the broken bottle with his bare hands.
“Careful,” I warn, as he stands and drops several longer shards into the trash. I crouch on all fours, rag in hand, allowing the liquid to penetrate the cloth. An image of Cinderella flashes through my head. Even as a manager, I’m still scrubbing floors. Where the fuck is my Prince Charming?
A door slamming startles me from my thoughts, and I look up, just as Oliver enters through the kitchen.
Ask, and you shall receive.
I busy myself with the task at hand, as Oliver approaches and drops his keys onto the counter before looking down at me. I wish I could say my heart didn’t skip a beat. That my face didn’t flush. I wish I could say that I didn’t notice he’s wearing a light cream t-shirt, my absolute favorite color on him because it brings out the caramel flecks of his eyes. But it’d be a lie. All of it.
“Whaddya drop this time, butterfingers?” Oliver chuckles, his heavy gaze lingering on me for just a moment too long.
My eyes narrow. “Shut up.”
One time, one freaking time, while helping in the kitchen because Melbourne, our prep cook at the time, unexpectedly stormed out (okay, not so unexpectedly, because he and Oliver did not get along), I dropped his highly prized Le Creuset Saucier. By the way, who calls saucepans by fancy names like saucier? Executive chefs, that’s who, but I digress…
The saucier didn’t break, but the lid bent and now doesn’t seal right. According to Oliver, the saucier is useless, a fact that he reminds me of every time he cannot use said saucier to prepare his world famous béarnaise.
He laughs again and extends his hand to help me up, and unlike our first encounter all those months ago, I accept the help, doing my absolute best to ignore the catch in my breath and the flutter of nerves in my belly as his skin grazes mine.
I wonder if he struggles the same way I do, but there’s no tension in his features. Just a soft, easy smile. The creases that rim each eye belie his age. At first glance he could pass for a man my age—twenty-eight—even though he’s ten years my senior. He’s almost forty. That should turn me off. But it doesn’t.
If that weren’t enough, there’s also the teeny tiny fact that he’s engaged— practically married—and not interested in me. Yeah, there’s that, too.
I wiggle my hand free of his. “What are you doing here?” Turning away, I snatch a utility knife from the shelf. I slice through the lines of cardboard until the box is smooth and flat. “You’re not scheduled to come in until five.”
I may have his schedule memorized, but it’s not because I’m some weird, psycho stalker. I’m in charge of all the staff schedules, so knowing when someone’s shift ends or begins is a natural byproduct of the job.
He grabs the bag from the counter. “I have to prep the vegetables for tonight’s feature.”
“That’s Jason’s job.”
“Eh.” He shrugs. “Got nothing else to do.”
My stomach sours, because I know the exact reason why he has lots of free time. “Ainsley’s away again?”
“Yeah.”
He begins walking toward the kitchen, and I follow with the folded cardboard on my way out to the recycling dumpster. “Where’s she off to this time?”
Ainsley, Oliver’s fiancée, is a flight attendant. She’s abroad more than she’s stateside. Supposedly, after the wedding, she plans to switch to domestic routes only, so she’ll have more time to spend with her new husband. Yes, I said husband. And yes, I die a little inside every time I say it, even if it is only in my head.
“Copenhagen.” His brow furrows. “I think.”
“Mmm,” I mumble, already halfway out the door, not wanting to hear any more about his perfect fiancée. Most days are good days. I accept the fact that Oliver’s engaged to be married. In a different time, in a different life, maybe we could have been something more than what we are: colleagues, friends, and fellow foodies. I accept that he’s with Ainsley, and the kicker of all kickers? Ainsley is an awesome girl. Really awesome. Like, if I met her under any other circumstance, I’d want to be her friend.
But today’s not a good day. Just this morning, my ex-boyfriend’s engagement photo popped up front and center on my newsfeed. It’s not that I want Ryan back. Things didn’t work out between us for a reason, and I get that, but it’s just that everyone—all of my friends—are so happy. At least, it seems they are. My social media feed is flooded with proposals, marriages, and baby announcements, while I haven’t gone on a “real” date in more than a year. Maybe that’s why I pathetically pine after Oliver. Perhaps I just need to get laid.
I heave the cardboard into the dumpster, let the lid slam down behind me, and walk back toward the restaurant. For a moment, I contemplate using the front entrance so I can avoid Oliver, but decide against it. I’d have to walk almost an entire block out of my way, and it’s starting to drizzle.
By the time I make it into the kitchen, Oliver’s already at his station, head bent down, a mixture of colorful vegetables spread out before him. I attempt to sneak past him without saying a word, but his gruff voice stops me halfway through.
“Charli.”
My face flushes. It does every damn time he says my name because I imagine him saying it, low and needy, hovering over me. Naked. Skin to skin.
Shit.
Wetness begins to pool in my panties and I shake my head to dismiss the sexy thought. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Yeah?”
“Were you trying to sneak past me?”
I turn and gesture to the workbench. “You’re busy.”
His eyes snap up, hold mine. “That never stopped you before.”
“Okay, fine.” I roll my eyes at his teasing, playful tone. “I’m busy.” I head into my small office situated in the back corner to grab a new shirt. Calling it my office is very generous. Technically, it’s a small five-foot-by-eight-foot dumping ground for everyone’s shit.
When I walk back into the kitchen, Oliver’s gaze darts from the black shirt in my hand to my eyes.
I answer his unspoken question. “I’m covering for Joe tonight.”
He nods, returning his attention back to the cutting board, but I swear, as I push through the door, I can feel his eyes on me, right up until the door swings closed.
***
“I’m exhausted.” Meg, one of our servers, plops onto a stool across from where I stand wiping down the bar.
I’m tired, too, but more than anything, I’m relieved that I survived the night of fancy cocktails. Still, I agree with her. “Tell me about it. I’ve been here since eleven this morning.”
Her eyes widen. “Damn. That’s rough. I take it you’re not going out for drinks with us then?”
“That’d be a no.” My eyes drift to the middle-aged couple who still occupies the private corner booth. Someone, I can’t remember who, nicknamed it the bang booth, or BB for short, because couples always request it.
My eyes drift to the table to where their dessert plates are wiped clean, but their glasses are still full. Those drinks cost me fifteen minutes of googling, and God only knows how much data usage on my already-limited plan. I had no other choice, because I had no freaking clue which liquors combined to form a Vieux Carré.
What did my Google search uncover? I’ll put it this way: the innocent, non- assuming, middle-aged couple is getting turned up tonight. Vieux Carrés are made with a shit-ton of alcohol.
My gaze snaps to Meg’s as I say, “Doesn’t look like BB is going anytime soon.”
Meg rolls her eyes. “Ugh, I know.” She squeezes the back of her neck. “It’s their twentieth anniversary. They have a sitter.”
“Hmm, that explains the fancy drinks,” I say, more to myself than Meg. Internally, I hope Mrs. Middle-Age has purchased equally fancy lingerie for Mr. Middle-Age. Maybe she’ll even get a little wild tonight, let him spank her. They are celebrating, after all.
Suppressing a smile at my dirty train of thought, I ask, “How do you always manage to get everyone’s life story?”
She shrugs. “I have a friendly face, I guess.”
“I guess.” I throw the rag into the sink. “Well, I think I’m about done here. Rebecca will cash you and the other servers out after closing.”
“No problem.” She hops off the chair. “Oh, I almost forgot, Oliver wants you to stop and see him before you leave.”
Groaning, I ask, “What does he want now?”
“Who knows?” She makes a face. “You know how he needs you for everything.” She taps her nails on the bar. “You’re the only one who can manage him and his…” She hesitates, as she searches for the right word. “Particular ways.”
She’s not wrong. Months of working side by side with a top-rated chef such as Oliver will teach a girl a few things. Oliver is borderline obsessive about which food distributors we use and why. And his kitchen staff? Turnover is rampant. Oliver gives one-hundred-and-ten percent and expects everyone on his team to do the same. But after eleven-plus hours on my feet, I don’t know if I’m up for his charming personality.
To be frank, professionally speaking, Oliver is a huge pain in my ass. His attention to detail is relentless, and I swear, his brain never shuts off. I guess one doesn’t get to be a three-star Michelin-rated chef due to cutting corners or laziness. There’s no doubt that Oliver has taken Mecca from up-and-coming restaurant to a front page, you need to call six months in advance, top-rated restaurant. Don, the owner, gives Oliver a lot of freedom. A little too much freedom, in my humble opinion.
With a reserved sigh, I peer inside the swinging door, and the motion catches Oliver’s eye almost instantly. “What’s up, Ollie?”
Oliver growls at the nickname, and I have to admit his angry snarl is half the reason why I call him by the moniker more often than not.
“Nothing, Chuck.”
I shrug. “You know that doesn’t bother me.”
A knowing smile creeps across his face. “But Chucky does.”
“Fuck you.” A shiver passes through me. I’m not a fan of scary movies, at all, especially ones with grotesque dolls wielding sharp, deadly knives. “That’s just cruel.” I shake my head and walk farther into the large kitchen. It’s loud—pots and pans scrape against the stainless steel grates of the commercial gas stove, and it’s at least ten degrees warmer than in the dining room. “You know that movie scares the shit out of me.”
“Poor baby.” He swats me with a towel.
“You’re not the one whose cousin pranked her with an actual Chucky doll and a butcher knife.”
His tone turns patronizing. “I’m sure it was all very traumatic.” He cocks his head. “How old were you again? Thirteen? Fourteen?”
“I was nine.” I try to smack him, but he darts out of the way. I roll my eyes and then ask, “What do you need, Chef? Can it wait until tomorrow? I’m beat.”
He shakes his head no.
Of course, it can’t.
“The delivery from THC Foods is fucked up.” He snatches the purchase order pinned to the bulletin board. “I specifically ordered chanterelle mushrooms, not white button.”
My nose scrunches as I try to recall the purchase request. I can’t remember if I ticked the box to allow for substitutions.
His voice drips with disdain. “They’re unusable.”
“Jesus.” I grab the slip from his hands. “You’re such a snob.”
“Says the girl who devours everything I make.”
“I devour McDonald’s, too, so that’s not really a compliment.”
He places a hand over his heart. “Now, that hurts.”
Laughing, I grab my purse from the bottom drawer of my desk and begin to fish for my keys. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.” I look up to meet his gaze. “Will there be anything else, Master?”
“Master?” His lips tip into a wicked grin. “You trying to tell me something, Charli?” His tone deepens and his eyes glimmer with a hint of mischief. Or, at least, I think they do.
Maybe I just wish they did.
Ignoring the litany of thoughts flooding my mind, I flip him the bird on the way out the back door, and he calls my name again. Agitated, I spin to face him. “What?”
He holds a long, silver butcher knife in his right hand, poised at his shoulder like some deranged serial killer. “Sweet dreams.”
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.
Too bad he’s an asshole who stole my heart.
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