4. Whitley Whitt

Chapter 4

Whitley Whitt

You bake me crazy.

“Can you believe this?” I grumble to George hours later, my gaze catching on the tiered cake I made the day before that still sits untouched in a glass container. Not that I really expected any of the guests to eat it, but one of my few joys has been doing anything that can piss off Connor O’Doyle—and he hates cake. I’ve been making one every few days out of spite. The cake hater. I am so using that in a sentence.

“Well, I think it sounds cute.” George shrugs, leaning against the counter across from me as I seethe.

I screw up my face. “A dinner with dancing choreography and costumes?”

He grins before his mouth turns down into a pouting frown.

“Poor Whitley, getting to play dress-up while on the job. Honey, I would enjoy every second of it.” George’s hand flops down on a wave, then he cups his cheeks and leans further over the counter.

I groan. “I haven’t worn any kind of costume since college.”

“You and the ex-husband didn’t do Halloween?”

“No. Trevor worked nights and never did care for dressing up, so I usually just went out with friends if I wanted to participate.”

A memory of the year I dressed as Harley Quinn flits through my mind, and the only reason I did was because it was my last year of college. I wonder what kind of party this place will have at Halloween, not that I’ll be around to enjoy it.

George heads toward the cabinet that holds Fifi’s dog treats and gives me a saucy wink.

“What are you and Fifi up to today?” I ask, wondering why he’s packing treats. George usually only pops in during late afternoon to grab some.

“We are going exploring today and then a walk around the village for dinner. I swear, I think Fifi and I have seen just about all of Romania these last few weeks, but it’s so dang beautiful in spring.”

“Do you want me to pack you a lunch?” I move toward the fridge door to whip him up a picnic basket.

“Oh no, I want to visit this little pub they have in the village. They’re said to have the best cabbage wraps. I just needed to pop in for Fifi’s snacks.”

“Oh okay. Well, I hope you guys have a great time.” I move around him and snatch up a towel to wipe down the counter.

“We will. You behave yourself, you hear?” he says, exiting through the dining room door.

I sigh, wondering if I should just get over myself and send Mr. O’Doyle an email asking about the new costume situation. I glance at the clock. Almost time for my ten o’clock walk around the castle. I look down at my feet. Maybe I should change into some comfy clothes and flip flops.

“Why are you constantly leaving these everywhere?” Speak of the devil. He practically barks the words from the doorway, staring at my tiered cake as if it’s a biohazard and it’s contagious. Wearing an expensive three-piece suit, he glowers at me, his scowl crawling over my skin.

My cheeks start to burn, and I mentally roll my eyes.

I swear I have never met a bigger asshole in my life. I make up my mind then and there that when I leave, I will be telling him exactly where to place his lips as soon as I am on the way out the door. Squarely on my ass to kiss it goodbye.

His beautiful lips on his stupidly beautiful face that I punch every night in my dreams.

I bat my eyes and pout for effect. God, I hate his face .

“You can’t really be a cake hater. And here I thought you would be so busy you would have no time for lowly servants.”

“How many times must you be told I do not like cupcakes? And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” His brows pinch together.

“True. But these aren’t cupcakes, it’s just cake. See?”

His eyes darken and dart to my mouth when I wet my lips, then they drift up to glare at me with cold regard. I’m not sure what it is about me because I have seen him be nice. He is actually nice to everyone but me, and I have never done anything to the guy.

“It’s the exact same thing, just in a larger size, Miss Whitt,” he says, and my lips twitch.

“Would you like me to make you something less cake-like?” I ask, extending an olive branch. Maybe if I cook something the man prefers, he will lay off.

“No.” His nostrils flare and I get the inkling the guy is never going to like me no matter what I do. His cute forehead wrinkles, but he steps back. “I need to see you in the study.”

His expression clears before he turns around and leaves the room.

Looking down at the messy counter, I ask, “Now?”

“Right now,” he yells, the sound reverberating through the kitchen due to the tall-as-fuck ceilings.

“You don’t have to shout, prick ,” I mumble under my breath, my traitorous eyes following his ass as he stalks off.

I sigh and remove my apron to follow him to the study. This is so not going to be good.

Fifteen minutes later I am cursing my abilities to tell the future because I was so right, but also, I know this man did not just say what I think he did.

“Could you repeat that, please?” I ask, ignoring how good he looks with his shirtsleeves rolled up, the veins in his arms on display and the bulk of his muscles cut into the fabric.

God is so cruel to make a man this hot this evil.

I smile and the arrogant asshat’s brows raise, making me almost laugh at how his gaze trails over me cautiously.

“I said that the contract states the applicant must perform above expectations to receive the full thirty thousand pounds for the three months’ stay.” He smirks, his gaze falling to the paper in his hands before tossing it across his desk to me.

I don’t react to his assholeness because, frankly, I am used to Sir Surliness. I wouldn’t know what to do if the guy smiled or offered any politeness to me at all.

“You handle the finances?” I ask.

Damn. The bastard took one look at me a month ago today and hated me on sight. I, of course, was too busy trying to recover from how hot he is to notice until it was too late. Shit.

“That is a sizeable sum,” Mr. O’Doyle says, the ever-present frown on his face unmoving.

The leather chair I sit in squeaks loudly as I lean closer to his desk. It’s probably intentional. I can see him buying the squeaky leather chair on purpose—just one more thing to make people feel small and squirm.

“I have done everything asked of me since accepting the post,” I say, gritting my teeth, hoping he doesn’t notice with how widely I am smiling to cover it. Oh my god. If this motherfucker tries to take my bonus.

Redrum. I think I could rock a jumpsuit.

Connor frowns, his thick brows coming together and marring his pretty forehead. “That is to be determined.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” My gaze flicks to his, and he holds my stare.

“I’m not sure where you come from, Miss Whitt, but imbibing alcohol while on the job is frowned upon and, if you recall, it wasn’t but weeks ago when I found you drinking during the grand opening.”

My eyes bug from my head at the insinuation and images of that night flash through my mind. “You’re joking,” I mutter under my breath, disbelieving what he just said.

“And that is but one of your transgressions.”

“What transgressions?” I blurt. “I was hired by Vlad Tepesh, my boss, Mr. O’Doyle. If Mr. Tepesh has any issues, he has yet to tell me and I already told you, I was not drinking.”

Ha, have that.

The longer he stares, the more I want to wiggle in place and get away from his penetrating gaze that seems to want to tear me apart. I breathe in a shallow breath when he finally drops his gaze from mine.

“Unfortunately for you, Miss Whitt,” he practically bites out, “I run this castle and oversee all operations within it. I’m not sure if you realize that includes you.”

I bite my tongue to keep from telling him how much his piss poor attitude sucks and glance around the room.

“What other transgressions?” I ask sweetly, rising up from my chair.

“Sit,” he demands.

I smile, moving behind the gentleman’s chair in front of his desk and leaning against the tall back of it gently. He can so kiss my ass. “I’d rather stand, thank you.”

Obviously put out that I didn’t follow his order, his eyes harden. “Repeated insubordination.”

Oh. He means the cupcakes. I withhold a snicker and look out the window to keep myself from cracking.

“Are you even listening, Miss Whitt?”

“Of course. I am listening.” Oh, I am listening , you jackhole.

“I am redoing the menu to fit a specific theme,” he says, not telling me anything I don’t already know while looking at his computer and typing away on it as he speaks.

Who the hell can do that? I can barely walk and chew gum, the robot. Tuning out words like efficiency and inattention, I watch, transfixed, as the man’s mouth moves, his tone deadened as he types with one hand on the keyboard and takes a sip of his coffee mid bitchfest.

“And you will wear a costume to humor the guests as needed.”

My eyebrows raise. “You cannot be serious.”

He raises a hand, cutting off my words. “I will approve all meals.”

My jaw drops at the words, and suddenly it’s as if I am enacting a Saturday morning cartoon with steam rolling out of my ears. “When I took this post, I told you that very night that this is my kitchen until I give up my post.”

“And I am telling you, chef Whitley, that I am taking over.”

My stomach fills with lead.

“The hotel is branching out, and making a greater experience for customers is one way to do that,” he continues.

“We host for guests every day. What kind of costumes?” I ask, unable to keep my mouth shut.

“The kind I want you to wear.”

Images of him choking while my hands squeeze around his throat flit through my mind. The universe is testing me. It is the only thing that makes sense.

“And if I do all of this, I get the bonus?” I can’t help but ask.

“Cook everything to my specifications and do as I say.” He growls the last part and a muscle tick in his jaw. “And we will see about your bonus.”

My teeth grind in my mouth as I move toward the door, intent on getting as far away as I can before I lose it.

“No more cupcakes,” he barks out. “That will be all.”