But I don't. I don't say any of that. Why would I? What would it get me-especially from this man?

Bastian Hale doesn't do vulnerability. He does efficiency and excellence and probably some other e-words that I can't think of right now because my brain is still processing the whole shirtless thing. But vulnerability?

No. Not once. Not ever.

As if to prove me wrong, though, Bastian's face softens just a fraction. "Go home, Hunter. Whatever's going on, it'll still be there in the morning."

That is the problem, though: It won't be. Not quite. Every morning, there'll be a little less. A little less light, a little less color, a little less of everything I've taken for granted.

And then in ninety days, there won't be anything.

2

ELIANA

mis·fire: /ˈmisˌfī(ə)r/: noun

1: when a dish doesn't cook as intended.

2: when a perfectly nice gesture gets torched to bits by a pompous, self-important bosshole.

I give up on sleep around 3 A.M., which is probably for the best, since my brain has decided to run a highlight reel of last night's mortification on loop.

But that brain, being the saucy little minx that it sometimes likes to be, has scripted a very different ending for the encounter.

In real life, the whole debacle couldn't have lasted more than five minutes, tops. Deep in the throes of this REM cycle, though, five minutes becomes five centuries. Every detail gets magnified.

It's not just Bastian Hale's chest I'm seeing anymore. It's every blonde hair on said chest, enhanced into ultra-crystal-clear 4K HD. Every curve of every muscle is there like brushstrokes on a painting when you're close enough for your nose to almost graze the canvas.

It's not just "tattoo." It's the spread wings of an eagle, inked into skin that's tan and warm and smells like soap and wintergreen.

And it's not just "Care to explain what you're doing?" Now, because I'm sick, because my thoughts are sick and my fantasies are sick (and probably also because I haven't experienced sexual contact since the last presidential administration), it's Bastian's voice purring something very, very different:

I thought you'd never ask.

It goes completely off the rails from there. Instead of his fingers gently encircling my wrist and peeling me off of him, those fingers now nudge my hands down, down, down. Past the soft thickets of chest hair, past the rivulets of six, count 'em, six defined abs, toward where the V points directly to the buckle of his belt.

Then he keeps going.

I force myself awake there, because Bastian's inked, scarred, calloused hands tempting my very innocent, very demure, very well-lotioned hands into performing heinous sexual acts in the middle of the workplace is a bridge too far.

Also, getting my fantastical rocks off-with my boss, no less-is not high on my priority list.

I have bigger things to worry about. My eyes are trying to quiet quit on me, which is frankly very rude. I ought to focus on that, not on the thick blue vein in my boss's bicep or the glint in his eye when he looked at me and smirked.

Come 4 A.M., I am showered, dressed, and staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to memorize the exact shade of green in my irises. Turns out they have little flecks of hazel in them. Who knew?

By the time 5 A.M. rolls around, I'm standing outside Grain & Gather, the bougie bakery three blocks from the office that charges twelve dollars for a croissant. That's a crime, but the real felony is that it's worth every penny.

The owner, Fletcher, is just flipping the sign to Open. "Eliana!" His face lights up when he sees me. "You're early, even for you."

"That's how you get the worm, right?"

I grin for a second before my sick, depraved brain starts thinking of other "worms" it would like to get and I have to shake my head to dispel the unwelcome horny thoughts.

"Anyway, I couldn't sleep." I take a deep inhale, soaking up the aromas of fresh bread and butter and a cinnamon-y sweetness that makes my stomach growl. Just like that, I'm grinning again. "Okay, that smells insanely delicious. I need... three of everything."

He laughs. "You sure about that? That's a lot of carbs for a little lady."

"First of all, how dare you disrespect my ability to inhale sugar? Secondly, it's not for me. Well, not all for me. I'm feeding the test kitchen crew."

Fletcher's eyebrows go up. The test kitchen at Hale Hospitality is legendary-fifteen of the most talented chefs in Chicago, plus a small army of sous chefs, stagiaires, dishwashers, prep staff, and more, all working around the clock to develop bold new concepts for Bastian's ever-expanding culinary empire. They're the best of the best.

They are also, currently, miserable. Bastian has been in rare form all week, rejecting dish after dish, sending entire menus back to the drawing board with scathing comments. He's taken to just scrawling NGE across the top in huge, red letters. That stands for Not Good Enough. It's honestly kind of impressive how concisely he manages to be a giant asshole.

"That's kind of you," Fletcher says with a whistle as he reaches for boxes to start loading me up with kilograms of sugary goodness. "What's the occasion?"

I watch him work, his hands quick and practiced as he selects pastries. Chicago dawn catches the glaze on a row of kouign-amann. The dusty cocoa on fresh bomboloni. The perfect spiral of a morning bun.

It's borderline pornographic for a sweet treat addict like me.

"Well, the boss is grinding everyone into useless little nubs since we're getting close to the Project Olympus launch. He's a sadist, I think. I just do what I can to lighten the load for my fellow sufferers."

That is partly true-with the completion of Project Olympus finally on the near horizon, Bastian has been more monstrous than usual.

The other part is something that was percolating in my head as I tossed and turned in the wee hours of the night.

I have ninety days left-well, ninety minus one-and that's just not a lot of time. I want to taste everything, see everything, experience everything while I still can. And if I can do that while also bringing a small taste of joy to a group of stressed-out chefs?

Well, that's killing two birds with one scone.

Two hundred dollars later, I struggle through the revolving doors of the Hale building, juggling a trio of pastry boxes and a tray of coffees. The security guard, Kyle (not incompetent-spreadsheet Kyle, different Kyle), jumps up to help.

"Ms. Hunter, let me⁠-"

"I've got it," I say, then immediately prove myself wrong by nearly dropping the coffee tray. "Okay, maybe just the coffee."

He takes the tray with a grin. "Test kitchen?"

"How'd you know?"

"Only reason anyone brings this much sugar before 6 A.M. Plus, Chef Rubio texted me that Mr. Hale made three people cry yesterday."

"Three? I heard two."

"Pastry chef had a delayed reaction. Didn't hit until she got to her car."

We ride the elevator to the fifteenth floor, where the test kitchen occupies half the level. It is Bastian's pet project, a state-of-the-art facility that looks more like a spaceship than a kitchen. He makes sure that the crew keeps it spic-and-span, too-we're talking "toothbrushes scrubbing the grout" levels of cleanliness-so it's a glistening, unblemished ocean of white and stainless steel as far as the eye can see. Legend has it that the health inspector fell to his knees and wept tears of joy when he first came to approve the place's opening.

The doors haven't even fully opened when Chef Rubio appears. Under normal circumstances, she's an espresso in human form: Puerto Rican, loud as hell, with an irrepressible smile and hips that constantly swing to salsa music that no one else can hear.

My first thought today, though, is that she looks beyond exhausted. She's practically got piping bags under her eyes.

"Please tell me those are from Grain & Gather," she says to me in a hushed rasp when she sees what I'm carrying.

I wink. "Would I bring you anything else?"

"Mija, I could kiss you. On the mouth. With tongue." Thankfully, she spares me the early morning tongue bath. Instead, she grabs two boxes, then calls over her shoulder in rapid Spanish. Within seconds, I am surrounded by chefs, all of them clawing for the goodies and groaning wordlessly like a zombie horde.

"Oh my God, kouign-amann," someone moans.

"Are these the brown butter croissants? Eliana, you angel."

"Coffee's still hot!"

I ask how things are going, someone starts explaining the difference between lamination techniques in French versus Austrian pastries, and for a few minutes, everything feels normal.

Better than normal, actually. There is something beautiful about watching people's faces light up over simple pleasures.

Chef Rubio closes her eyes and sighs when she bites into a morning bun. The newest line cook, barely out of culinary school, holds his croissant aloft like it's made of gold.

"You know what? You're officially my favorite person," he says, his mouth still full. His name tag reads Samuel, and he's got an eager energy that hasn't been beaten out of him by the industry yet, though his hair is standing straight up like he either just stuck a spatula in an electrical socket or he's been running his hands through it all night long in frustration.

Another one of the chefs guffaws, spraying a mouthful of blueberry muffin everywhere. "You sure it's not LeBastard?"

At the mention of the big boss, everyone groans in unison. One of the French stagiaires mutters the nickname again under his breath with such visceral hatred that it makes me flinch. "LeBastard. Ce fils de pute."

I don't have to speak French to understand that they're not exactly singing his praises.

Wincing, I make eye contact with Samuel. "It's been that bad?"

"Worse than you could possibly imagine," he says vehemently.

I glance at Rubio, who nods in confirmation. "We're three weeks out from the investor preview for Project Olympus and he's rejected every single dish we've presented."

Project Olympus-Bastian's baby, his magnum opus. It's a skyscraper-sized ode to fine dining. A fourteen-story complex with a dozen restaurant concepts under one roof, each one with the oh-so-humble goal of revolutionizing a world cuisine. Italian, Korean, Chicago's finest-Bastian has pulled out all the stops to make it a mecca of good eats.

That comes with a price tag, of course. Meaning that the investor preview dinner is make-or-break for the project's funding. I've seen the numbers; we're talking about a potential three-billion-dollar valuation if he can pull it off.

The "if" is the part that's got everyone burning the midnight oil.

"Maybe someone needs to get him laid. Make the grouchy motherfucker a little less grouchy, you know?" suggests Tony, one of the sous chefs. To my horror, he turns and starts waggling his eyebrows at me. "Take one for the team, Eliana. You're pretty enough, and God knows he needs to release some tension."

My face goes nuclear. Last night's delusional fantasies flood back-warm skin, soapy scent, hands coaxing lower... What if I had? What if we had?

"Pfft, please," I snort, aiming for what I hope and pray comes off as casual, I-would-never dismissiveness. "Bastian Hale doesn't even see me as human, much less as a woman. I'm basically sentient office furniture to him."

"I don't know," Chef Rubio says, giving me a sly look. "You've got some legs on you, chica. And you're single, yeah? I see sparks. And I think that stubborn hijo de puta sees 'em, too. He looks at you, you know."

"Probably just wondering if he can legally make me work the dish pit," I say, but my mind is racing and my pulse is racing even faster than that.

Tony chuckles. "Spoken like someone who's been here too long. Remember when you could have hope? Dreams? Basic human dignity?"

"Vaguely," I say, and everyone laughs again, but there's an edge of truth to it. For six years, I've been clawing my way up from receptionist, putting in seventy-hour weeks, skipping vacations, missing birthdays. Just like Mom always said: Keep your head down, stay quiet, don't make waves. Of course, Mom also said that about her various post-Dad boyfriends' drinking habits, about the landlord who used to let himself into our apartment, about every disappointment life ever threw at us.

Don't make waves, Eliana. That only makes things worse. Just endure.

Well, look where that got me: twenty-seven years old, depressingly single, and about to go blind.

Maybe "enduring" is overrated.

"Besides," I continue, "can you imagine? Me and Bastian? He'd probably make me submit a PowerPoint presentation before we could do the deed."

The kitchen erupts in laughter, and I feel the spotlight shift away from my burning face. Thank God.

"Oh my God, yes," Samuel wheezes. "He'd have performance metrics!"

"KPIs for everything," Tony adds, wiping tears from his eyes. "Customer satisfaction scores."

"'Your moaning was only at seventy percent capacity.'" Chef Rubio mimics Bastian's clipped tone perfectly. "'I expect excellence in all areas, Ms. Hunter. This is simply not good enough.'"

I snort-laugh so hard cappuccino nearly comes out my nose. "He'd probably write NGE on my ass with a Sharpie."

That mental image sends everyone into fresh hysterics. One of the prep cooks is literally on the floor, clutching his stomach.

"Stop, stop," the French stagiaire gasps. "I cannot breathe!"

"You know he'd time everything," I continue, emboldened by their laughter and the sugar rush from the bite of kouign-amann I just stole. "Foreplay: twelve minutes and not a second more. Any longer is just poor time management."

Chef Rubio scoffs. "Girl, you're being generous. That man would schedule sex like a business meeting. 'I have an opening between my 3 P.M. conference call and my 3:45 portfolio review.'"

"Forty-five minutes?" Tony shakes his head. "Nah, he'd block fifteen, tops. Five for the act, five for a critique, five to check his emails."

"While still in bed," Samuel adds.

"While still inside you," I correct.

Everyone guffaws; meanwhile, I'm trying to ignore the way my whole body feels like it's been dipped in hot sauce. Making fun of Bastian like this feels dangerous, thrilling. It's playing with matches next to a gas leak.

Part of me wonders what he'd think if he could hear us. Would those ice-blue eyes narrow in that way that makes my stomach do weird jumping jacks? Would his jaw clench? His hands tighten? His eyes burn?

"You know what the worst part would be?" I say, riding the incomparable high of making your coworkers laugh while you talk shit about your tyrannical boss. "Bastian would take one look at you and⁠-"

"Ahem."

I hear a throat clear, and even as I start to turn, I know what I'm going to find.

Sure enough, I do.

Bastian Hale stands framed in the kitchen doors, impeccable as always in a powder blue shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. His scowl is at full force today. That ten percent smirk from last night is nowhere to be found-it's pure venom, pure heat, pure what the fuck do you think you're doing?

Our eyes meet across the kitchen.

The laughter dies in my throat.

"Don't stop on my account," he growls. "Tell me, Ms. Hunter: what would I take one look at you and do?"

If spontaneous human combustion were real, I'd be a pile of ash right now. If only that were so.

Everyone turns in slow motion, like those dreams where you're trying to run but can't move fast enough. The horror on their faces might be comical if I weren't experiencing my own personal apocalypse.

"Mr. Hale!" Chef Rubio recovers first and tries to jump to my rescue. "I was⁠-"

"Not you, Chef." He steps into the kitchen, and everyone takes an unconscious step back. It's like watching a nature documentary where the antelope sense the lion approaching and wait to see which poor sucker he'll be turning into lunch. "Please, Ms. Hunter-continue."

I want to die. I want to melt into the floor and become one with the tiles. I want to reverse time and tell past-me to keep her stupid mouth shut about what Bastian Hale may or may not do while he's still inside of you.

But I can't do any of those things.

All I can do is squeak out a pathetic "I'm sorry" that crashes and burns before it even makes it halfway across the kitchen.

Bastian nods like he expected no less. He takes another meandering step into the kitchen and his gaze sweeps around as if to memorize every flushed, guilty face. "How thoughtful of you to cater a breakfast party, Ms. Hunter. I wasn't aware we'd restructured the morning schedule to include social hour."

The kouign-amann in my hand wobbles. "It's not-" I start. "I just thought⁠-"

"You thought." Another step closer. "You thought it would be appropriate to distract my entire kitchen staff during extremely important crunch time hours with... " He picks up a box and examines it like it contains evidence of a crime. "Pastries."

"Mr. Hale," Chef Rubio tries again, "we were just⁠-"

"Getting back to work, I assume." He doesn't even look at her. His eyes stay on me, and there is nothing-nothing-of last night's warmth in them. "Unless Ms. Hunter has also taken it upon herself to do that for you? Perhaps she has opinions on the tasting menu for the investor dinner? Well, Ms. Hunter? I'm all ears."

My face burns. Everyone is staring at their shoes, their half-eaten pastries, anywhere but at us.

"I was trying to be nice," I croak.

"Is 'nice' anywhere in your job description, Ms. Hunter?"

"No, but⁠-"

"But nothing." He drops the box on the ground and a donut goes rolling mournfully into the distance. "You're not special, Ms. Hunter, and you are not exempt from the rules or from the work. You're an employee. One of many. And like every other employee, you're expected to focus on your actual job instead of playing food fairy to people who should be working."

Who is this man? I want to scream and ask anyone who will listen. What happened to the bright-eyed tease from last night? Who is this asshole, this tyrant, this stranger?

And who am I?

Last night, I felt-stupidly, maybe, or naively-but I felt like I was somebody to him.

This morning, I am nothing. Just another employee. A food fairy getting her wings plucked off.

My eyes burn. Do not cry. Do not cry in front of Bastian Hale and the entire test kitchen staff.

"I came in early," I manage. "On my own time."

A surge of angry heat passes over his face. "If you have enough of that, perhaps we're not challenging you sufficiently. I'll have to adjust your workload."

"I should go," I say, in a horrifyingly sad echo of last night.

"Yes," he agrees. "You should."