Roomies (A Standalone Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) by Claire Adams Page B

date, or do I lie and figure out a
way to make up with her so we can keep having sex?
    “I wanted tonight to be
special,” I tell her.
    What the hell am I doing?
I decided on the lie.
    “Special? Giving you a
knob bob in the parking lot of a baseball stadium is your idea of a special
night?”
    “I wanted to take you to
the game,” I tell her. “I was trying to take you out on a date.”
    “Pull the fucking car
over,” she says.
    This isn’t the easiest
task where we are in the Bronx this time of night.
    “I told you I didn’t want
any of that,” she says. “You crossed the line, Dane. Let me out!”
    “What? You’re going to
catch a cab back to Manhattan right now?” I ask, finally managing to
double-park.
    “Don’t call me,” she
says. “Don’t come by. Stay out of my life, you fucking freak.”
    With that, she throws her
door open and gets out of the car.
    She’s hailing a cab by
lifting her shirt. It works well enough, but the woman is fucking insane.
    When she gets in the cab,
she doesn’t get in the back, but the front seat. At least I know she’s getting
home safe as I pull back into my lane and drive off. I just wished I’d spared
myself the glance in the mirror, seeing her head dipping below the dashboard.
    A few weeks ago, I would
have told you that Wrigley was the perfect woman for me: no worries about
monogamy, a little crazy, insatiable. Now, though. I don’t know.
    There’s got to be
something more to it than that.
    I can’t believe that I’ve
actually grown bored of a woman with a sex drive higher than mine.
    I know I’m paying by the
mile, but I drive around the city for a while. Most of the time, it’s stoplight
after stoplight, waiting for that shade of green that means I can drive free
for the next couple hundred feet before I have to stop again.
    Every once in a while,
though, I hit a few green lights in a row, and I start to let things go. I
start to forget all the nonsense.
    It never lasts.
    I couldn’t tell you what
brought me here now, but as I’m pulling into the parking lot of l’Iris for the very first time in a car driven under my own
power, I know where I’m going. For the first time in a long time, I know where
I’m going.
    I’m through the back door
and standing outside Jim’s office before anyone sees me.
    That’s going to work to my
benefit.
    I knock.
    “Come in.”
    I open the door.
    “Dane,” Jim says. “You’re
not on tonight, are you? I thought Cannon was running the kitchen.”
    “Yeah, I’m sure he’s
running it through a wood chipper,” I tell him, “but that’s not why I’m here.”
    “Okay,” he says and leans
back in his chair. “Why are you here then?”
    “Jim, I get that you’ve
got to cut some spending, but you’ve kept me on this long. I know you don’t
want to let me go.”
    “Yeah, I told you that—”
    “Just let me finish,” I
say.
    This is probably the most
respectful I’ve ever been to my boss.
    “Okay.”
    “Jim, I don’t mean to
sound like a clingy girlfriend or something, but I need to know where this is
going. If you’re going to fire me, fire me now. I’m not just going to sit
around and wait for it to happen. If you’re not going to fire me, well, I have
a few ideas.”
    He puts his hands
together, interlocking his fingers.
    “I’m listening,” he says.
    “First,” I tell him, “we
dump Cannon. I’m sorry Jim, but he’s just nowhere near good enough. Even when I
am there pissing down his neck, he’s only ever half on, and you know that’s not
anywhere near cutting it.”
    “Dane, I don’t think
firing Cannon is going to—”
    “Next,” I interrupt, “we
promote Wilks to executive chef and demote me—with pay decrease—to sous chef.
He’s going to need me for guidance over the first couple of weeks, but he’s
really one of the most talented guys I’ve ever worked with in this business.
When he came in here, he didn’t know the difference between crème brûlée and a ramekin full