Must Date The Chef

|| 4.

Idem words take a few seconds to settle in and when it does, I offer him an apologetic grin, pay the bills and walk to my car, feeling a little dejected. I should have stuck to Edwin, at least he always comes back.

Still in deep thoughts, I pay no attention to my surrounding while inserting my car key into the keyhole until a deep, seductive voice breaks me from my reverie. "You look worried, ma'am, is everything alright?"

The reflection of the other person on my car window shows Paul with his hands shoved into his front pockets but I refuse to believe he's the one until I turn. Truly, truly, there is Paul, in flesh and blood, standing right behind me with a teasing smirk on his face like he did not break his promise to me.

Without much of a thought, I strike him across the cheek, the same hand I'd used to hit him going to cover my mouth when his head flies to the side. I tense and my teeth sink into my lip, half waiting for him to lash out or even retaliate. He doesn't speak, instead, he acts like he'd been expecting it.

Great job, Pauline. You've successfully found your way to his list of crazy women to avoid.

"I'm so sorry," I murmur now that the crazy button has been switched off and he laughs.

"I deserve it, I guess," he replies and I am glad we both agree on the fact that the shit he pulled back inside was an asshole move.

Still, slapping people I don't know? That's on the same level of asshole as him. Some men would have slapped the consciousness out of me with what I like to call: the hand of Satan. The woman who fainted after a bus conductor slapped her will agree with me on that. I shudder at that distant memory, absentmindedly rubbing my cheek.

"I'm sorry," I apologise again. "I won't be upset if you refuse to have anything to do with me after now," I add with a shy smile.

"You don't have to keep apologizing," he says and the corner of his lips curve into a smile. "I'm also sorry for leaving. I wanted to see your reaction, I guess. I didn't expect the slap though." His palm massages his cheek as if to ease the pain; if there is any.

I have been told my hands are as soft as a baby's butt and my punches are equivalent to a masseuse's touch. I tilt my head to one side when he finishes with his explanation. I find him too cool to be a waiter, the aura of confidence that surrounds him doesn't fit his job title but I don't think too much of it.

Now that we have both apologized, I don't know what to say. "Where are you headed?"

Paul watches me with the same fascination I will have on my face when I am presented with a red velvet cake or new makeup set.

"Home. Banzy Estate," he finally replies.

Going to Banzy Estate will mean taking a longer route to my house. "It's not far from where I live," I say. When he doesn't request for my address, I add, "I'll give you a ride."

We engage in a stare off and he shortens the distance between us. He's standing so close to me and I see that the thin line across his left eyebrow is indeed a scar. The mixture of his fragrance with spices that's probably from his time in the kitchen tickles my nostrils and I have to remind myself he's a stranger to avoid inhaling his musky scent.

His hand goes behind me and my breath hitches in my throat. He retracts his arm, takes a step back and dangles my handbag in front of me. "Your bag, ma'am."

"I didn't forget it," I say more to myself. He chuckles and my fingers itch to wipe that smug look off his face. Maybe I did forget about the leather bag sitting on the hood of my car but he doesn't have to know that.

"And its Pauline, not ma'am," I mutter to save face. We look to be in the same age bracket but I can't say for sure, men tend to look younger than their actual age.