“So, you’re friends with Todd?” Her eyes shift his way.

I follow her vision then look back to her.

Her mouth is hanging slightly ajar.

“Oh, seriously,” I groan.

Todd is standing shirtless with the top button of his pants undone. They are hanging off his waist, displaying a nice view of his perfect V torso. Unlike Lucy, I’ve seen that plus more of Todd. He’s a nice sight, though; I can’t deny that.

I wave my hand in front of her face, and after a few times, she jolts her head my way.

“Yeah, I’m friends with Mr. Gordon Ramsay two-point-oh.”

“He’s nice.” Her eyes deviate to him again.

“He’s—”

Shawn, the general manager, head bursts through the door “Let’s go, guys. Two minutes.” His harsh voice booms into the room like a coach on game day. “And Davis is here,” he finishes as the door swings shut.

You’d think someone had screamed about a bomb from the way the calm room turns frenzied after Shawn’s departure. Even Todd’s fingers are quickly manipulating the buttons to his chef jacket.

I hurriedly dress, and the apron and shirt fit me. Phew.

I follow the others. We’re like little ants marching to a picnic, and we end up in the state-of-the-art kitchen that Todd calls home. It’s impeccably clean, with more steel than the Empire State Building. Todd settles in to his prep area next to the other chefs, and I remain silent next to Lucy, waiting for instructions.

Shawn dictates to the staff their table assignments and the private-party arrangements for the night. He’s six-three with broad shoulders and a small gut that strains over his belt. His voice is commanding, and although he was nice and polite to me yesterday during the interview, I’m positive he wouldn’t think twice about putting me in my place.

“Let me introduce Amelia Fiore, our new bartender,” he announces.

Some heads turn my way, and others don’t. As I mentioned, the restaurant business resembles high school.

I offer a wave of my hand and a small smile while heat rushes up my neck. Lucy’s hand wraps around my wrist, and she reassuringly squeezes it.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Amelia Fiore. Welcome to CHOPs.”

The shock from hearing the deep voice next to me causes my shoulders to jolt.

A wave of masculine scent floats across my nostrils, and shivers prick my skin. A pair of alluring brown eyes with long, dark eyelashes stares right at me. I draw my head back to gain personal space.

“Thank you,” I say, astonished that I’m mere inches away from him.

Davis Morgan is more edible than the mouth-watering dishes he creates. For two years, he’s been Brooklyn’s most eligible bachelor. He’s been featured on every type of media filmed in the city. He’d be the city’s prince if there were such a thing as royalty. Okay, maybe that’s a little bit of an exaggeration.

“Davis,” Shawn says, stepping aside to allow him to take over.

Davis’s lips turn up one more time before he flips his attention to his employees. “Thanks, Shawn. I was just welcoming our new . . . bartender?” he questions.

Shawn nods.

“Where do you find these girls?” His focus turns to me. “Can you even lift a keg of beer?”

The room bursts with fake laughter. Yeah, these people know who signs their paychecks.

His eyes find mine again and my throat constricts, attempting to swallow the little amount of saliva in my mouth.

“She’s Todd’s friend,” Shawn says, answering a question I’m not sure Davis was seeking an answer to.

Davis turns to Todd then looks back my way again.

My cheeks must be flaming red about now. I’ve hated being the center of attention ever since that time in fifth grade when I had to do my presentation on Indonesia, only to stutter my way through the word archipelago.

A look of disbelief and curiosity crosses Davis’s face for a second. “Well, welcome, Amelia. If you need assistance with those kegs, come grab me. I’d be more than willing to help you.”

He winks, and three gossiping girls’ heads snap my way.

Oh, my God, I think I just stopped breathing. I try to collect myself after flirting with the boss. As I pick up my head, I find Todd’s eyes locked in my direction.

Focusing his attention on the staff once again, Davis discusses the specials for tonight, and I attempt to focus on the dishes he’s featuring instead of his strong hands gripping the chopping knife slicing through onions. I try to remember the savory ingredients rather than noticing the light stubble across his cheeks and jaw. His eyes veer my way when he finishes a sentence, and my breathing halts again.

Five mini heart attacks and half an hour later, we’re released to our stations to prepare the restaurant for opening.

I dash to the restroom to compose myself. He’s your boss. He’s your boss.

Oh, how I can already visualize those hands gripping my hips and hoisting me up onto that metal table. My legs would easily slide open to allow him entry, and my back would arch off the cool surface as his hand cupped my face. His warm fingertips would breeze over my breasts, igniting a rush of tingles—

“Get your ass out here!” Todd hollers into the women’s restroom, my daydream screeching to a halt.

Stopping my wild imagination, I inhale and exhale, repeating my mantra to the mirror. Resting with my hand on the restroom door handle, I close my eyes and suck in one last breath before opening the door.

My heart drops when I find Davis waiting on the other side. He pushes himself off the wall and breaks the distance between us. “So, let’s see how great of a bartender you are. Come make me a drink.” He nods in the direction of the bar.

“What’s your drink of choice?” I attempt my best casual and easy voice, praying my nervous stuttering can stay hidden for a little longer.

“Guess.” He smirks and sits down on one of the barstools. “What kind of guy do I seem like? Beer? Rum and Coke? Maybe a wine spritzer?”

Our eyes meet with amusement.

“I hope you aren’t a wine spritzer guy, but I’d bet you had your fair share of Zimas back in the day.”

He shrugs, clearly keeping that information under his vest.

I investigate the foreign bar, biting the inside of my cheek. Lifting the cooler, I spot the supply of beer. Grabbing a chilled tall glass, I place it in front of him on a cocktail napkin and he smiles, revealing that I’m getting warm. Now that I know I’m close to his drink preference, I decide the middle of the road is best. Pulling out a Stella Artois, I grab a bottle opener and easily pry open the cap on the glass bottle. He slowly nods, and I pour the beer into the glass. Our eyes lock, and the light-colored sudsy liquid almost spills over the edge.

“So, I was right?”

“Very good choice, Miss Fiore.” He lifts the glass to his mouth, sipping the beer. His tongue snakes across his upper lip to lick the white suds off. “Just the right amount of head.”

He winks, and my stomach somersaults.

“I’ve never had any complaints.”

“I’m sure you haven’t,” he says with intense, seductive eyes piercing into my own.

An awkward silence fills the small space between us, and my body leans over the bar. His crisp cologne surrounds us.

“Well”—I clear my throat—“I’d better find my way around this place.”

He’s your boss, Amelia. Stay away . . . far, far away.

“Thank you for the beer.” He raises the glass in the air, sips it again, and places it down on the cocktail napkin. “Time to dictate to the chefs.” His lips curl at the corners and he steps through the swinging doors, giving me no time to respond.

The rest of the evening goes by like the flick of a lighter. Luckily, Victor, the head bartender, and Megan, another bartender, were here to show me the ropes. They saved me too many times for me to ever pay them back. Saturday night packed the stools, which profited my pocket.