Baby For My Grumpy Chef, page 1
BABY FOR MY GRUMPY CHEF
OLIVIA BOLTON
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
SNEAK PEAK
OLIVIA BOLTON
1
AMELIA
“Come on, Amelia! When was the last time you got out?”
“Chloe, I told you. I don’t go to bars.” I sigh, turning to slide a patient file back in place. Chloe has both arms resting on the nurse station countertop, giving me a pleading look. Her eyes are a vivid blue, and big in a way that makes her look more innocent than I know she is.
“And that’s fine! I’m not asking you to start going to bars.” Chloe argues. “I’m asking you to go to this bar, just once.”
“Don’t you have other friends you could ask?” I sit back down, trying to look busy with my lunchtime salad. I stab at a cherry tomato, but instead of going through it, the fork just rolls it to the other side, and I scowl.
“Sure, I do. But I want to go out with you. You helped me out with those overflow patients last week. I owe you!”
And I wouldn’t have if I’d known it would lead to this, I want to say to her. But I bite my tongue and instead reply as patiently as I can, “You don’t have to repay me for anything, Chloe.”
“I know that, but still, I feel like I should treat you. You’re always so quiet! I want to see two-drink Amelia, even three or four-drink Amelia.” She says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.
To be fully honest, I barely even know one-drink Amelia. At the age of 30, I’ve made myself a quiet, isolated little life that I find very pleasant. The downside is that it comes a severe lack of experience with drinking or going out. I consider a nice meal at a sit-down restaurant or a visit to a maker’s market enough excitement for me. A bar?!
No way. It’s not happening.
Well…I didn’t want it to, at least.
But somehow, the next evening, I find myself standing in front of a crowded bar entrance wearing a dress that is way too short at the either end.
“Quit tugging at your dress like that.” Chloe whispers, grinning in a commiserating sort of way. She’s squeezed into a tight outfit, too, but I’d guess she’s a lot more experienced than I am. “It looks great on you!”
“I’m not your size!” I hiss back. “I should have just worn jeans!”
When Chloe saw what I was going to wear out - a pair of jeans and one of my nicer t-shirts - she turned on her heel and marched back out to her car, where she kept her emergency outfits.
I wouldn’t have left the house in it if she’d given me a chance to really take it in. I looked in the mirror for all of ten seconds, and in that time I saw sleek, dark red velvet that clung to my hips and chest like Velcro, outlining every curve of my waist. The dress is so short that it distracted me from my thoughts to leave and curl up on my couch.
The plunging, V-shaped neckline is another issue.
Chloe waves a dismissive hand, and I give up trying to fully cover my cleavage as we show our IDs to the bouncer. I step into the bar, stiff as a rod, but am surprised to find that the all of the people disperse pretty nicely in here.
There are pool tables on one side, a dance floor on the other, and full tables scattered around. The lights are a little dim, and the music is loud, but…it isn’t as bad as I was expecting.
“Why don’t you go buy us some drinks?” Chloe slips her card into my hand, then threads her fingers together, cracking her knuckles over her head. From the fierce look in her eyes, I gather she has some kind of mischief in mind. “I’m going to free us up a pool table.”
“I don’t-” Without giving me time to tell her that I don’t have any idea what to order at a bar - or how to play pool, for that matter - Chloe stalks off, starting up a conversation with a pair of men who are almost finished with their game.
Cursing myself inside, I make my way to the bar, nervously smiling at the people I bump into on the way. I have to look weird, right? There’s no way I seem like someone who knows how to relax in a bar!
I let out a breath of relief when I make it to the bar. One of the bartenders, a woman with bright pink hair and a t-shirt with a logo too faded to read, turns and smiles at me. “Hey, there. What can I get you?”
“I, um…” The most alcohol I’ve had up until now has been a glass of wine, never any cocktails. “What would be…good?”
The bartender raises an eyebrow. “You bring your ID with you?” My face flushes crimson, and I start pulling out my wallet, but she laughs and shakes her head. “Just teasing you, sweetheart. Cranberry vodka is pretty classic, unless you’d like some shots?”
“No shots.” I say quickly. “The cranberry vodka sounds great. Two of them, please.” The last thing I need is to get too drunk on a Friday night.
Two hours later, Chloe returns to the pool table with another round of tequila shots. “Hey, party girl!” She cheers, handing me one. “Ready to have some fun?”
I grin at her, feeling loose and warm. “You know, I-” I break off as she tips back her shot, following suit. To my delight, I barely have any trouble swallowing this one. “I never had a shot before tonight.” I finish, my words blending together just a little too much.
“Really?” Chloe snorts, picking up one of the pool cues and lining up her shot. “Not even as a teenager?”
“Well, okay.” I admit. “Maybe I drank a little as a teenager. But I just don’t anymore.” She thrusts the pool cue forward and sends the little white ball - or cue ball, as Chloe told me - rolling, clacking against the others, and shakes her head with disappointment as they all go bouncing off the walls.
“Why not?” Chloe straightens up, gesturing for me to take my turn. “No judgment. Just curious, you know?”
I shrug, bending down. The dress I’m wearing rides up dangerously close to my hips, but I don’t care so much after…three drinks?
A loose giggle escapes me. I guess Chloe does get to meet three-drink Amelia.
“I don’t have anyone to do it with. And it feels sad to drink alone.” I hit the cue ball and send it flying, eyes widening when it sends another ball sinking into the corner pocket.
After Chloe and I are done cheering at my first success, she wipes the corner of her eye and frowns at me. “Wait - did you say you don’t have anyone to drink with?”
Wait - maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that. But it’s too late now, so I just loosely shrug, hoping she’ll leave it alone. “Like you said, I’m pretty quiet.”
She doesn’t seem inclined to let it go. “Still, Amelia…you don’t have any friends? Family?”
After a beat, I give in and shake my head. “No.” The word tastes bitter coming off my tongue.
“Shit.” Chloe looks surprised, leaning back against the pool table and looking me over. “No wonder you don’t go out. It’s not fun alone - I mean, hell, look at that guy. He’s been sitting there all night without a word.” She tilts her head at a man sitting in the corner, at the smallest table possible.
I turn my head to see him, and a strange feeling travels up the base of my spine, a heated buzz that warms my blood.
My first conscious thought is that the man sitting there looks sad. My second is that he looks entirely unapproachable.
But, taking precedence over both of those things - he is hot.
The flashing lights of the bar illuminate glimpses of a strong jawline, covered in a scruffy beard that I assume is blond from the way it changes colors with the lighting. His eyes are blue, almost looking black in the dim room, and I swear that I see them shift to me for the barest instant before they look away again.
My mouth feels dry. “Amelia?” Chloe’s voice sounds distant, but when she grabs my shoulder, I snap back into reality.
“Hm?” I turn and face her, my heart beating oddly quickly. “What’s wrong?”
To my surprise, after scrutinizing me for a few seconds, Chloe snorts. “So, that’s your type, huh? The big and scary guys?”
“What? No!” Maybe it’s silly, but I’m genuinely taken aback by that. My type? Is she talking about Mister dark and handsome across the room? Maybe I looked at him for a little longer than I should - but I mean, he is nice to look at, and-
Chloe tips her head back and laughs. “Uh huh. Sure.”
And then, suddenly, her hands are on my shoulders and she’s steering me across the room. “Chloe?” I whisper at first, embarrassment growing as I try to push back against her - she is so tiny, how is she this strong?!
“You said it yourself that you don’t get out!” Chloe replies, dropping her own voice to that so-called ‘whisper’ that people who don’t know how to whisper do. I can see other patrons looking at us, frowning when we interrupt their view of the dance floor. “This is your chance! Go talk to him!”
“It’s not- I can’t just- stop it!” I scramble to find the right words, but these damn heels are impossible to keep my balance in, let alone try to fight off a drunken woman and her matchmaking attempts. Within moments, she’s pushed me right up to the edge of his table, giving me a final shove that sends me stumbling and grabbing his shoulder for balance. “Chloe!” I wail.
She waves her fingers at me. “Have fun! I’ll be playing pool.”
“I’m going to-”
A throat clearing makes me pause mid-yell, and with growing dread, I turn around to face the very confused, somewhat disgruntled man whose shoulder I’m still clutching. “Um…hi.” I manage to say, smiling despite the fact that every part of me is screaming with mortification.
He stares - or maybe scowls is a better word - up at me, but nothing prepares me for the low, gravelly voice that rumbles against my hand. “Mind letting go of me?”
“Yes!” I yelp, snatching my hand back like I’ve been burned. “I mean- no, I don’t mind.”
“...great.” The handsome stranger frowns at me, waiting for something.
I don’t know what else he wants - an apology? “Um…I’m sorry about the, uh…the rude introduction.” I weakly attempt, offering him a smile.
He sighs through his nose. “No, don’t worry. I love when random women grab me in the bar.” He rumbles back. The sharp comment makes something twinge in my chest, but the way he turns his head, those eyes a softer blue than I realized up close, makes me less anxious about offending him.
Because, to be totally honest, it seems like he’s the kind of guy who will be offended no matter what. And after having several tequila shots in a row as my first taste of liquor, it really just isn’t as frightening as it would have a few hours ago.
I sit down opposite him, and his attention comes snapping back to me. “Are you serious? This isn’t your table.” He almost growls the words, something twisting in my belly.
“Do you want me to leave?” I ask, idly tugging at the dress riding up my thigh. If it were any higher up, I might as well not have any clothes on my lower body at all. I look up and notice that those dark eyes are on me, set under furrowed brows.
When the stranger continues to stare at me, his expression utterly bemused, a little devil in me gives me the courage to add, “Or would you rather buy me a drink?”
I smile at him with the question, the smallest, slyest smile I’ve ever given.
I’m not the flirty type. Not due to my ethics or pride, but because I’m absolutely unable to flirt most of the time. My attempts in the past thirty years of life have almost always gone poorly, like this is certain to. I can see that handsome face hardening into a glare.
So it takes me by surprise when, after a beat, my bar crush raises an eyebrow and chuckles with exasperation. “You’re a bold little thing.”
“Little?” I echo, frowning at him.
Instead of replying, he stands up, and I’m treated to a close view of this towering man. When I’m sitting, my head barely comes up to his belt, if I was standing, I think my head might reach his collarbones. I can’t see his face in the dark room, only hearing his deep voice when he rumbles, “What do you want?”
I swallow, hard. “...cranberry vodka?”
“Hm. Sure you don’t need water?” I can’t quite tell, but I think he’s squinting at me. How drunk does he think I am?
“If I need water, so do you.” I point out, tilting my head at the beer bottles on his table. He snorts and starts walking to the bar without a reply.
I watch his silhouette as he steps up to the bar. He’s a head taller than anyone else nearby, and while the other patrons make me squirm and shuffle between them, the crowd practically parts down the middle for him. “Lucky.” I mutter to myself.
Then it really registers, what I’m doing right now. Looking back at my hands, I breathe deep, trying to calm my suddenly quickening heartbeat. Is this really happening? I’m usually a terrible flirt, but not only did I stumble up on this man and grab him - I got him to buy me a drink!
A light touch on my shoulder sends a prickle of sensation down my spine, and my eyes dart up to see him standing next to the table. “Cranberry vodka.”
He sets the cup down, walks around me, and sits on the other side of the table again. My mouth is dry at the easy movement of that massive body - he might be quiet, but I’d bet anything he knows how to handle himself. Maybe he was in the military?
“You don’t talk much.” I blurt out, watching him tilt his beer up to his lips.
There’s just enough light that I see him cock an eyebrow. “Don’t need to. You’re doing it for me.”
I thank the bar owners that nobody sees how hot my face gets, especially him. “Thanks.” I mutter, but some of my irritation fades when I hear him laugh. Not loudly, but a quiet chuckle, precious when it comes from a man who I doubt finds humor in much.
The table is barely big enough for the two of us, my feet brushing his leg before I pull them both as far under my chair as possible. He leans back, his shirt straightening out to reveal a broad, hard chest, and takes a larger swallow of his beer. I wrinkle my nose, unable to help imagining what it must taste like, and to my surprise, he tilts his head at me, lips curling up at one side. “Something wrong?”
That laugh, that smile - there are butterflies flooding my belly, and I have no idea where to place them. “I just…er, I’ve never seen that beer before.”
“This?” The blond man holds up his dark glass bottle and shrugs. “Most people don’t drink stouts straight. You wouldn’t like it.”
Somehow, that gets me to frown. After all, I’ve been experimenting with tequila tonight, and that wasn’t so bad. Is a dark beer going to stop me? “Can I try it?”
He looks downright startled, though I don’t think I’d recognize that expression as surprised before I spent a few minutes sitting with him. “Did you hear what I just said?” He replies, but that gravelly voice is light, and he holds out the bottle for me to take.
“I just-” I hiccup, to my mortification, and cover my mouth with a hand. He watches me silently, raising a brow as I scowl and take a bigger swig of the stout than I should.
The right size would have been none, because this stuff is absolutely foul. The bitter taste makes me screw up my face, and he laughs again, a deep, genuine sound, as I stuff the bottle back into his hands and splutter. “How do you drink that?!” I demand.
“I told you.” He leans close, enough that I can see his eyes are blue, and less serious than I’d expected as his gaze meets mine. “It’s an acquired taste.” He lifts the bottle for another sip. I can smell rosemary on his jacket, and while I’ve never liked that scent before…it makes something heat up in my belly, right now.
“Why would you want to acquire that taste?” I mutter, and the man chokes on his swallow, cursing and grinning as he slams a hand on the counter.
“Don’t say shit like that while I’m drinking!”
I can’t help a laugh, and suddenly, we’re chatting like old friends. Whether I remember what we talk about isn’t important - what I do remember is the way his mouth softens when he’s amused, the color of his beard, varying from pale blond to almost brown.
And as I glance over, seeing Chloe chatting with a group of girls she just met, I wonder if I can make this night last forever.
2
SEBASTIAN
When this girl first grabbed my arm, I thought she was insane. I was ready to fend off a drunk woman whose flirting had gotten out of control, but…
Somehow, she got me here.
I don’t come to bars to sit with people and chat. I come to have a few drinks somewhere that’s not my living room, watch a football game I don’t care about on the bar television, and have a nice place to walk home from.
And yet, this little woman with her dark hair and pale eyes has managed to get me to buy her a drink, not just that, but she’s gotten me to laugh with her.
I’d be confused, or maybe irritated, if I wasn’t having such a good time. “This stupid dress!” She suddenly mutters, looking down. My mouth suddenly feels dry when she reaches up to tug at the front of her dress, pulling it tight over the soft curve of her cleavage. Fuck, that’s…
