[COMPLETED]
❝Death is inevitable. It's a promise made to us at birth.❞
Arielle is a studious young woman striving to be a chef. Her life is full of going to class, reading textbooks, and hanging out with her friends, until she meets Zayn. Zayn's an...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
➳ ARIELLE'S POV
I wipe down the plate within my hands as I dry it off, frustrated. I can feel his eyes burning a hole into my head. It's been like this the entire class and the level of discomfort I'm feeling burst through the ceiling about thirty minutes ago and has only sky-rocketed to the clouds.
Placing the plate into the cupboard where it belongs, it takes everything within me to not gaze in his direction, but I know that if I return Chef's lingering gaze, it's only going to make things worse. One more class with him, I tell myself. Just one more.
We cooked rib of lamb with garlic risotto and fava beans today. It took well over two hours to cook—two hours of being in the same room with the dick that called Zayn a brute. To say that I was uncomfortable when I walked into the room is an understatement.
When I first arrived to class, Chef Wilson stopped what he was doing on his desk, his eyes burning holes in me. I didn't dare look in his direction. I told myself I wouldn't look at his eyes. I wouldn't make eye contact. If I didn't make eye contact, then maybe I could just shrink away and disappear into the crowd.
But I knew it wasn't working. I can still feel his eyes analyzing my every move.
I grab the last dish on the rack, a glass, and wipe it off as quick as the liquid will absorb into the towel. I stand on my tippy toes to place the glass on the shelf. "Arielle," I hear a familiar deep voice ring out behind me. I don't turn towards the voice instantly, I just hang my head, hoping and praying that some miracle will happen where he just vanishes.
"Arielle," he calls my name again, making me hate the way it sounds coming out from his low voice, I much prefer Zayn's sweet accent calling me to him. I would find that voice in the middle of a damn hurricane and join it to safety.
I know that I can't ignore him forever so, I inhale a breath before turning towards him. I don't make eye contact, pretending as if I'm glancing around the room like I'm looking for someone. It's then that I realize that there's only the three of us left in the space, and the other person in the room is hanging up their chef's coat, signalling that they're leaving. That means it'll only be Chef and I.
Alone.
Fuck.
My name falls from his thin lips a third time and I'm forced to look into his brown eyes. I take a step backwards instinctively, hitting the countertop. He notices the reaction, leaning forward to place his hands on the tile top opposite me.
"Yes, Chef?" I don't want to stand here and fight with him. I don't even want to see his face. I don't want to hear the sound as he scratches his tattered beard out of habit. I don't want to hear my name fall from his mouth. I don't want to be in the presence of someone who's so unpredictable. So infuriating. So menacing. So clearly manipulative.
