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Welcome back! The Work Wife, my all new standalone, romantic comedy will be yours in FIVE days!  As promised, here is the next installment of Charli + Oliver’s love story!

Prologue

Chapter One

All rights reserved © 2019

Oliver

Chopping and dicing are two of my favorite things to do in the kitchen. I like to lose myself in the monotony of it. The rhythm of the sharp blade slicing through the paper-thin skin of the vegetable, the click-click-click of the wooden handle of the knife as it hits the counter. The perfect, linear cuts creating new pieces from a whole. It soothes me. It also gives me a chance to think, which is why, even with Jason, our prep cook, and Giancarlo, my sous chef, I do most of the prep work myself. Some people sit in the dark chanting, “Om.” Me? I chop vegetables.

Tonight, more than ever, I need to lose myself, because my mind is in fucking overdrive.

It’s an irrevocable, undisputable fact that things either happen all at once or not at all. Three-hundred-and-eighty-nine days ago, my girlfriend Ainsley and I decided to take our relationship to the next level. I popped the question, she said yes, and moved into my house the following week. I wish I could tell you that our love is the life-altering, can’t-live-without-you, stars-in-our-eyes type of love, but it isn’t.

Our love is steady. Calm. Familiar.

By the time I finally proposed marriage, we’d been dating for almost two years. Our relationship isn’t the stuff of Hallmark movies but we enjoy each other’s company, and give each other space to be our own person. I work a lot, and with Ainsley being out of the country for weeks at a time, the relationship is ideal for us both.

So, a little over a year ago, I bought a ring, and over Indian takeout—Ainsley’s favorite—I asked her to be my wife. No over-the-top proposal. No confession of “I can’t live without you.” No talk of finding my soul mate. Looking back, and it embarrasses me even to think this, the whole ordeal seemed rather formal. It was crisp, efficient, business-like, but then, Ainsley isn’t a hearts-and-flowers kind of woman.

The crazy thing is, at the time it all seemed so normal. I told myself that if Ainsley was happy with the way things were, then so was I.

Then, things changed. Three-hundred-and-seventy-three days ago, I met Charlotte Ann Truse, and my world tipped on its axis. Charlotte crashed into my life, literally, with such force that I was drowning in her before my dumbstruck mind thought even to take a breath.

From the day I chased her and that damned dog down the sidewalk, something sparked inside me. It was like a switch had been flipped. Like I had been living in the dark my entire life, and she finally brought the light. My light.

Too corny?  Maybe. But it’s the fucking truth.

Everything about her intrigues me. From her round blue eyes to her pert nose, to the lone beauty mark that sits just above lips so plump and juicy I don’t know how I’ve resisted taking a bite, to the long brown hair she always wears tied up in a loose knot that my fingers itch to run through.

But it’s more than just her physical appearance. Even if I weren’t attracted to her—and trust me, it’s damned near impossible to imagine that—she’d still take my breath away.

A little awkward, a little unsure, a whole lot feisty, she keeps me on my toes. Her take-no-shit attitude keeps me—and my arrogance—in check. I have to fight back a smile every time she scolds me with that smart mouth. A mouth that I ache to have pressed against my lips, my skin, my dick.

But what makes her the absolute total package?  She’s a foodie, just like me. She will try any and everything at least one time. Never turns her nose up, never questions calories or fat content, simply leans in and takes a decadent bite. She enjoys food the way it’s meant to be enjoyed. Slowly. Sensually. With all five senses. And it turns me the fuck on.

I probably shouldn’t admit this, but sometimes I get a boner watching her eat. Not all the time. Okay, usually, yeah, I do. But when these tiny, soft little moans of uncontrolled pleasure escape her mouth, or when she tips her head back and smiles in ecstasy, or when she licks her fingers…

A man would have to be made of stone not to be affected.

There are so many reasons why I cannot have feelings for Charli. I could write a book about the ways us getting involved is a bad idea. It would probably be a three-part series by the time I finished listing the ways.

For one, I’m engaged. It’s my strongest defense against her and probably the reason why I told her almost instantly about Ainsley. You know how sometimes when a guy is trying to pick up a girl at a bar and the girl casually mentions “her boyfriend?” to ward him off? I know, smooth, right?

But that was me. I was the lame one, spouting nonsense about the significant other to establish clear boundaries. It didn’t even make sense, but on Charli’s first official day, when she was stocking the bar tray, she asked if I liked maraschino cherries. I blurted. “No, but my fiancée does.”

I don’t know what the hell came over me, but somehow I figured telling her about my relationship would draw a line in the sand between us. After a rather long, awkward pause, she smiled and said, “Good to know.”

Reason number two: she’s my coworker. I’m reasonably certain that Don wouldn’t care if we dated. He’s very laid back and adores Charli. He likes me, too, but mostly because I bring prestige to his restaurant in the form of press and Michelin stars, and he knows it.  I don’t think he’d care if I banged the entire staff, as long as I kept pumping out top-rated dishes and earning glowing reviews from the food critics. But even if Don were on board, things between Charli and me had the potential to get messy. I’m a huge proponent of the mantra “don’t shit where you eat.”

Sighing, I grab three long, fresh carrots that will be used in the mirepoix.

Peel. Slice. Chop. Repeat.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, three, Charli’s ten years younger than me. On nights when Charli has me really wound up—nights like tonight when she wears a flimsy little floral dress that could easily be undone with a straightforward pull of the tie around her waist—I cool off by reminding myself that she was eight when I was eighteen. That kills any indecent feelings real fast.

Moving on. Number four—

“Oliver.” My dark eyes slowly look up, landing on a perfect set of round, full tits, leaning toward me. Why, God, why do you torture me so?

“Oliver.”

Charli snaps her fingers, and my attention jumps to her face.

“Yeah?” My voice comes out gruff.

Her brow quirks. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “What do you need?”

“Let Jason finish that.” She gestures to the round onions and stalks of celery that I’ve yet to touch. “Michael Brown is here.”

I sober in an instant, the color draining from my face. According to the insider tip we received, Michael isn’t supposed to arrive for his evaluation until tomorrow. I haven’t even prepared the salt rub for the bass yet. Goddammit.

“From the Times?” I wipe my hand on the rag tucked in the front of my apron. “Don told me the tasting was scheduled for tomorrow.”

She shakes her head. “Change of plans.”

Even though on the outside I appear calm and put together, I’m more than a little anxious. Few things rattle my steel-hard resolve. I’ve run two full marathons back to back, gone cliff diving in the Maldives, and even competed in the Colorado Trail Race. It’s safe to say I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie.

But no matter how many times food critics have sampled my cuisine, no matter how many rave reviews I’ve received, no matter how many awards or accolades trail my name, tastings are nerve-wracking as hell. I mean, the person’s entire job is to criticize, to critique the meal that a chef (a.k.a. me) has painstakingly prepared. And the Zagat and Michelin associations are not shy about taking stars away if a restaurant (again, me) doesn’t meet their stringent qualifications.

Reading my hesitation, Charli assures. “You’re a rock star.” Her eyes shine with pride. “You got this.”

A slow smile tips the corners of my lips. “Thanks, Charli girl.”

She swats my ass as I walk past, and I’ll admit, I like it more than I should. “Now, go dazzle Mr. Food Critic with your super sexy…”

I snap my eyes to hers, wanting her to comment on my body—just once.

Arms.

Mouth.

Dick.

I hold her gaze for a moment longer, and her smile widens as though she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Food, Oliver. Your super sexy food.”

Chuckling, I push the door open.

I’ll take the compliment.

The truth is, I’d take anything from her.

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