“Shut it,” I side-mouth back to her. “I run a professional kitchen, goddammit.”
“Now what?” Kane interrupts from behind me.
I hand him the first stack of mixing bowls. “Sink. Soap. Scrub. Dry.”
His eyebrows rise. “Am I being hazed?”
“You’re on probation. Prove yourself worthy, and maybe you’ll get a call up to the big leagues.”
“Mopping?” he asks with a teasing shine in his eye.
I swat him with the nearest dish towel. “If you’re lucky.”
Laughing, he goes to the sink and starts to work.
And I immediately lose track of my thoughts.
Which, like, c’mon. That’s so dumb.
This should not be sexy. Dishwashing is not a sexy activity. I spent ten years asking Connor to rinse his oatmeal bowl before it hardened into construction material, so suds should inspire resentment, not horniness. Es
