The knife on Grayson's desk glared at Neville like a damning piece of evidence he needed to remove. If only he had managed to toss it back at Shelly, none of this would've happened.
But there was no room for regrets. Especially not when Grayson—someone who rarely smiled—was smiling like that. That smug curve of his lips made Neville's fingers twitch with the urge to throw something at his boss's perfect face.
This was worse.
Ignoring his attempt to just offer a one-time food delivery, Grayson leaned back in his chair with his usual elegance.
"I won't make it hard for you," he said, his eyes locking onto Neville's. "I'll provide everything you need to be able to cook."
Neville's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. The thick frames did little to hide his irritation. He glanced past Grayson and spotted Bryan, pale and sweating like he was one breath away from a meltdown.
Neville folded his arms and said firmly, "I'm not a chef, sir."
