Burn For You

39

Pepper, in a tight, shiny gold dress so short it looked like a skirt she’d hiked up over her boobs, jumped up and down, grinning like mad and clapping her hands.

“He doesn’t want a table! He wants to see you!”

Eeny muttered, “Get the poor man a pair of sunglasses and a stiff drink.”

Over on the other side of the kitchen, Hoyt started to whistle the theme to Jaws.

I said, “Pepper, please tell him I’ll be out in a min—”

Jackson burst through the kitchen doors. He spotted me standing frozen at the stove and said loudly, “Everyone out.”

The entire kitchen staff turned to look at me.

Oh Lord. Not this again.

Smoothing my hands over the flyaways from my bun, I said, “Jackson, we’re so busy right now. I’m sorry, but I can’t have my employees—”

“We’re getting married,” he pronounced, and stared at me.

Pepper gasped. Eeny did a comical double take. Hoyt started coughing and couldn’t stop. Everyone else stood stock-still, their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open.

Most of me was convinced he was joking. It was in terrible taste, but that was really the only option that made any kind of sense.

There was a tiny part of me, however, that noted the determined look in his eyes and wasn’t so sure.

“How nice for us,” I said sarcastically. “And when will the blessed event take place?”

When he looked relieved, I started to panic.

He said, “As soon as possible. Tonight, if you want. We can go to the courthouse right now.”

Pepper squealed in glee. No one else made a peep, except for Eeny, who threw her head back and started to laugh.

That’s when my panic turned to anger.

I marched over to Jackson, grabbed hold of the front of his shirt, and dragged him out of the kitchen and into the alley behind the restaurant, kicking the back door open in front of me. When the door slammed shut behind us, I whirled on him and let him have it.

“What the Sam hell is the matter with you? This is my place of business! Some of us have to work for a living! You can’t just barge in here and start telling stupid jokes—”

“It’s not a joke,” he interrupted, his voice hard. “And if you marry me, you’ll never have to work again.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “You’ve lost it. You’ve seriously lost your mind.”

“Just hear me out—”

“No, I won’t hear you out! I don’t know who you think you are, but I don’t find this funny! And I don’t have time to listen to whatever stupidity this is! I swear I oughta just call the loony bin and have them pick you up—”

“I’ll give you a million dollars.”

He obviously thought that was a good direction to take this conversation, but I felt like he’d just punched me right in the gut.

It was painfully obvious now that he wasn’t joking. He was serious as a heart attack. He’d walked into my restaurant and announced we were getting married—not asked, announced—and then told me how much he was paying me to do it.

The man thought he could buy me. He thought I was for sale.

He thought I was a w***e.

Heat flooded my face. In a raw, shaking voice, I said, “How dare you.”

“I know you need the money—”

That’s all he got out because I stepped up and slapped him across the face.

The crack of my open palm hitting his cheek seemed unnaturally loud. But maybe face slaps were always that loud. I had no idea, because I’d never done it before.

His head snapped around. He lifted a hand to his cheek and stared at me with his lips slightly parted, his eyes dazed. Bewildered, he asked, “What the hell did you do that for?”

What an i***t.

I hissed, “I’m not a w***e, Jackson Boudreaux. Whatever your opinion is of me, I’m setting you straight right here and now. You can’t buy me.”

“I don’t think you’re a w***e! Jesus Christ, hold on a minute—”

“No, you hold on, you rich, dumb, arrogant ass! I took the catering job because I needed the money, yes, but not for myself, and not so I could get sold into prostitution later on!”

“What the f*****g hell—”

“You should be ashamed of yourself! What would your mother say if she could see you right now, offering money to a girl to sleep with you?”

“Holy f**k, Bianca!”

“Stop cursing at me!”

He took two steps toward me and shouted right back, “I never said anything about sleeping with me! I’m talking about marriage!”

We stood nose to nose, glaring murder at each other, breathing hard, our hands clenched to fists.

“Oh, I see,” I said through gritted teeth. “You’re gay. You need a beard.”

Jackson closed his eyes and muttered an oath under his breath. “No. I am not gay.” He opened his eyes. “And you know it, because that kiss we had was hotter than the sidewalk in July.”

We continued to glare at each other. I said, “Your metaphors need work.”

“Excuse me. Hotter than a billy goat with a blowtorch.”

“That doesn’t even make sense. And comparing a lady’s kiss to anything to do with a goat is just bad manners.”

His eyes glimmered with laughter, but his face stayed straight. “You’re right. I’ll try it again. That kiss was hotter than a housewife reading Fifty Shades of Grey at the Magic Mike premiere.”