A/N: Just a fun, sexy story that the muse demanded. But I haven't forgotten Teenage Dream – I'm already working on the next chapter and hope to update soon.

Prologue

She was out to get him, and the sooner she did, the better.

It was only Emma's sixth night on the job and she was already cursing all the way there. They called it the kitchens of Neverland – a mouthwatering Michelin starred restaurant in the heart of Chicago. She called it hell. And Killian Jones – the executive head chef – was like the devil himself.

Killian was a force of nature in the kitchen. He exuded the impeccable self-confidence of Gordon Ramsay, the captivating English charm of Jamie Oliver and inherent expertise that could put every top chef to shame.

Under different circumstances she would've said he was a handsome man. Even strikingly so. He had luscious – and presumably very kissable – lips; a blade of a nose and neatly trimmed stubble along his masculine square jaw. His unruly inky-black hair framed his magnificent bone structure and impossible blue eyes.

But all of that gorgeousness was pointless since he wore a perpetual frown.

What a waste.

Not that he was a man who inspired pity or sympathy… Resentment and hatred were more like it.

Every single day since Emma had joined the team, he'd made her participate in the preparations. Goddamn preparations. She hadn't had to do those since the first year of her career. For fuck's sake, she was a sous-chef not the kitchen help. But Killian had different ideas.

Ugh! His name alone was enough to make her blood boil. Yes, he was a brilliant chef, one whom surely she could learn a lot from – had he bothered to teach – but he was also the rudest person she'd ever had to work with.

With quick mind, even quicker hands and razor sharp tongue, he dominated the kitchen ruthlessly. His style bold and aggressive. And the formidable blue gaze he casted everywhere he went was enough to let one know he took shit from no one. Killian was a gifted, driven chef who more than knew his way around myriad cuisines. In the kitchen he had two dozen pairs of eyes looking up to him and the same number of ears constantly awaiting his instructions; which in his authoritative gruff voice sounded more like commands. Everyone – apprentices to sous-chefs – was quick to yield to his every demand.

Everyone except Emma.

And since Killian was not only the king of the kitchen who ruled his realm effortlessly but also the owner of the restaurant, he could put her out of a job at any given moment. Yet Emma didn't care. Not one bit. If he fired her it'd look bad on her resume, no doubt about that. But there was just so much that she was willing to bear. The man was blunt and obnoxious. Words like please and thank you did not exist in his vocabulary. If asked, the arrogant prick would probably say that every member of his team should feel privileged to work alongside him.

…

"You're late." Killian's harsh tone accompanied by a fierce pinning gaze caused Emma to pause midstep; earning her sympathizing gazes from some of the other employees that were gathered in the expansive space of the restaurant kitchen.

"Not according to my phone, I'm not." She had the audacity to retort and wiggle her smartphone as proof while stepping further into the room.

"Then I suggest you set it to network-provided." Was his curt reply before he averted his attention back to the team and resumed going over the courses for the evening. "That's the end of this discussion Swan." Killian barked and held a hand to cut her off when she opened her mouth to speak.

Jesus. Emma's brows shot up. How the hell did he know she was going to say something if he didn't even glance her way?

Just when she thought she couldn't possibly hate him even more...

While everyone's gazes concentrated on their recipes in hands, Emma's hands slipped under the counter, hiding the phone from view so she could set the clock as her crude boss suggested just a moment earlier. When the time synchronized she realized she had been late by only two minutes. Two fucking minutes. That man was such an asshat.

"Swan!" He startled her, his tone taking that hard warning edge that told her to keep her mouth shut. "Did I say you can do it right now?"

Since it was a rhetorical question, she didn't reply. Instead, she shoved the phone back in her bag and whipped out her white chef's jacket. She slipped into the familiar material then grabbed a copy of the recipes for tonight's dishes.

Refusing to look at the man, she kept her eyes on the papers in hand. But unfortunately there was no way for her to avoid hearing his voice. It was low and smooth, and flavored with a delicious accent that brought sex to mind.

With every word he spoke fury simmered and a plan began to form. Thinking of kicking it into gear, Emma ran idle fingers over the lacy strap of her new bustier bra and remembered her best friend's words – why get mad when you can get even?

Regina Mills was known for her vindictive nature, some even said she was a cold-hearted bitch that had pure evil blood flowing through her veins. And witnessing what her friend was capable of, Emma wouldn't normally be the one to argue with that statement. Only this time Emma couldn't help but agree with her best friend.

Chef Jones deserved everything that was coming for him.

She'd do anything – anything – to give the haughty chef a taste of his own medicine. So against every feminist bone in her body, Emma was going to lay on as much female charm as it would take to bring Killian Jones to his knees.

By the end of the night the almighty chef wouldn't be so mighty anymore.