Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
So why would Alex be so careless? It made no sense.
But then again, when I remembered how careless he’d been with me in Amsterdam, how he’d arranged to come back to my room with me for the night and then taken a better offer the minute my head was turned, it made sense.
At the time, I’d wondered if it had been his youth. The man was clearly still in his twenties, while I was decidedly… not. So when he’d blown me off, I’d chalked it up to immaturity as well as selfishness. And so far, seeing him in his regular life had proved me correct.
When I’d gotten to the station this morning and had seen an alert pop up for a standard inspection due, I’d groaned in disbelief.
Timber.
I’d glared at the alert and clicked through to the details because this wasn’t related to the reports I’d filed after the drinks fire. It was something else completely.
“Hey, Sujo!” I’d barked after seeing the name on the notes.
Within moments, Javi had popped his head through my doorway. “Hey! I’m gonna have the Untrace incident report on your desk in an hour, tops, Chief, I promise—”
I’d cut him off with a wave. “That’s not what I… wait, what incident?”
“Dumbass left his mug warmer on and lit a folder on fire yesterday.” Javi had rolled his eyes. “No damage, but I gave the guy a lecture. It’ll all be in my report.”
I’d nodded, leaning forward in my chair. “Put that aside for a second and tell me about this commercial kitchen renovation at Timber.”
Forty minutes later, I’d found myself back at Timber, sparring with Alex Marian yet again.
“It’s already been inspected,” Alex said, looking more tired than angry today. “Don’t you have a record of it? I want to say it was back in April? Had to be. That’s when the renovations were done.”
“The suppression nozzle on the vent hood was supposed to be replaced after that inspection,” I explained. “This is a follow-up to make sure the work was done and everything is functioning properly for fire suppression. While I’m here, I’ll inspect your cleaning logs for the vent hood, test the alarm functionality and the shut-off feature of the wet chemical system, and double-check the location of your extinguishers.”
Alex gave me a blank stare. “Any way you can do that without interfering with the running of my business?”
“Absolutely not,” I said, flashing him a chipper grin. “Today’s Tuesday. Would you rather me come back on Friday or Saturday evening?”
He blinked. “Uh, no? I’d rather you come back never.”
“If wishes were horses… Anyway, I’ll help myself to the kitchen. Feel free to ignore me and continue doing what you were doing. Unless it involves butane, propane, kerosene, alcohol… or an open flame of any kind.”
Alex’s cheek flexed as he ground his teeth. “I own a wood-fired pizza oven. There are open flames in my place of work. I will continue to cook with them whether you like it or not.”
I pressed my lips together and lifted my eyebrows. “Will you, though?”
He rubbed his face with both hands before looking at me with bleary eyes. “Will you just get on with it, please? Jesus fuck. Less talking, more inspecting.”
It was a good sign he wasn’t nervous about the inspection. Hopefully, that meant all his ducks were in order and we could both get through this as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately, his ducks were not in a row, but I had to admit that it wasn’t his mistake.
“This is the wrong suppression nozzle,” I informed him, pointing to the offending part. “It looks like your contractor replaced it with the exact same part.”
I saw the fear wash over him, his entire body going rigid in expectation of me shutting him down until he could get it fixed.
“I’ll give you five days to get it fixed,” I said, feeling particularly magnanimous. “But if it’s not…”
He sucked in a shaky breath. “I’ll figure it out. It’s just there aren’t that many… never mind.” He blew out a breath and stalked off to the tiny office behind the commercial fridge.
After watching him walk away, dejected and stressed, I climbed down from the ladder, took it back out to my vehicle to store it properly, then took a seat in the truck to type up the report. When I was finished, I made a few phone calls and returned inside to find Alex at his desk.
The so-called office was a glorified broom closet behind the walk-in fridge. Every inch of wall space was crammed with something touting prestige—gourmet food awards, educational certificates, glossy photos of a smiling family at a fancy wine-tasting. Framed printouts of splashy media coverage were lined up on a shelf like some kind of pageant display. Even the desk seemed to brag: stacks of papers teetering next to an open laptop as if he were a hard worker, a coffee mug with a perfect ring staining the blotter like it had been placed there for effect.