She nodded. “I’ll do anything. I don’t mind starting from the bottom.” She cleared her throat nervously, but I spared her the sexual innuendo. “I worked at a diner as a cook. It may not sound like much, but I can also wash dishes or work as a waitress or…”

She was rambling again. Lifting one hand, I cut off the stream of words. “Time to be blunt. What the fuck makes you think you’re good enough for the best place in Boston?”

Her face fell. For a second, I almost felt sorry for her for marrying a bastard like me, but then I remembered she was a fucking headache I inherited from my old man, and I stiffened my back in my chair.

She squared her shoulders back, taking a deep breath. “I’m a great cook, Troy. Try me,” she challenged, calling me by my first name. She only did it when she tried to be nice, which wasn’t very often. Her eyes were almost pleading, but her tone let me know she wasn’t going to beg.

I let my mouth curve into a slow smile. That hint of fight gleamed behind her eyes again, dancing like flames. I stood up, offering her my hand.

“What are you doing?” She looked a little confused, but took my hand and followed suit, her chair screeching behind her.

“I’m going to see if you’re as good as your word, Mrs. Brennan.”

I led her to the back of the restaurant, barging through the swinging double-doors in a confident stride. The minute I stepped into the hectic kitchen, the hustle and bustle stopped. Everyone paused shouting over the dishes. Staff who ran from one station to the other halted, staring at me. Mouths fell open, dishes crashed against the floor and eyes widened. Hell, you’d think I walked in there with a loaded Uzi and not a frightened chick.

Guess my staff was surprised to see me. After all, I was notorious for being a short-tempered, snippy asshole. And the fact that I’d never bothered to meet any of my employees didn’t exactly push me up the list as Boss of The Year. They were waiting to see what I’d do. I was a case study. I was the psychopath. That’s the legend I fed, and that’s the legend I had to live up to, even if it wasn’t the whole truth.

The place was as hot as a furnace, and I grunted my disapproval, wiping off my forehead. Sparrow was standing behind me, clutching my hand in a death grip. She was scared shitless, and I kind of liked it.

“Who’s the head chef around here?” I asked, and watched as people flinched. No one spoke. No one breathed. No one fucking moved. Their terror echoed and bounced on the walls.

After a few seconds, a large man with a dark porno moustache and stained, white chef’s coat stepped forward, wiping his hands with a kitchen towel before tossing it on a chopping board and offering me his sausage-thick fingers for a handshake.

“That’d be me, sir. Name’s Pierre.”

I didn’t even look at his hand, let alone shake it. “Don’t really care. Now, this girl right here…” I turned around, pointing at Sparrow, whose eyes grew wider by the second. “She wants a job working in this kitchen.”

“We don’t need any new employees, but she can leave her contact number and—”

“I don’t remember assigning you as my HR manager,” I snapped. “Test. Her. Now.”

Hushed gasps filled the room. Some girl shrieked in the far corner of the kitchen. All eyes were on Sparrow, desperately trying to figure out why I wanted to help Plain Jane get a job at one of Boston’s finest. Guess they didn’t get the memo about the wedding of the month. The sound of something sizzling on a frying pan was the only thing audible in the crowded kitchen. Something other than my short fuse was burning.

“For the love of God, drag your asses back to work before you set my place on fire,” I roared.

Everybody jumped back to their stations, other than the head chef. He eyeballed Sparrow like she had just kidnapped his family at gunpoint and thrown them in a cellar full of venomous snakes. I turned around to glance at my wife. Despite her obvious embarrassment, she returned a challenging glare to the chef. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by his stink eye.

Atta girl.

I curled my finger behind my back, signaling her to step deeper into the kitchen. She did. I kept my eyes trained on what’s-his-name, who bit his hairy upper lip in barely contained frustration.

“Go on,” I murmured, my scowl lingering on his face. “Test her.”

He blinked a few times, trying to digest the situation. Then he sighed, looking around him for support. No one even dared to look at us now.

“Come with me,” he instructed her.