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[center][img]http://fontmeme.com/embed.php?text=Wyatt%20Rothenberg&name=Sweetly%20Broken.ttf&size=100&style_color=FFF6F0[/img]

[b]Location:[/b] [i]Seraphim Tattoos, The Bronx[/i]
[b]Interacting With:[/b] [i]Tatiana Carrington[/i][/center]
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“Okay, well, I wasn’t referring to your fucking ad.”

Oh God, here we go again.

It was a bad habit of his - one that plagued most line cooks - the word [i]‘fuck’[/i] or some variation of it popping up every other sentence. After spending countless nights over raging burners with a chef screaming bloody murder, it seemed to him that the only thing way to respond to mental duress was to curse like a sailor, even if the other party didn’t quite deserve such treatment. But in a professional kitchen, adhering to the guidelines of social grace wasn’t exactly top priority - quite the opposite, in fact - and as he listened to Tatiana talk, he almost thought he was back in Toronto, in the hot, sweaty furnace that was Charlemagne’s during rush hour.

“You could’ve told me in an email, a call - fuck, you could’ve [i]tweeted[/i] me, for all I care! No one said you had to scream for all the goddamned world to hear, but you’ve gotta admit, a little forewarning would’ve been nice.” Wyatt retorted, gesticulating wildly. The tone of his voice was flushed with perhaps a bit more vehemence than was necessary, though it was more out of panic than any real malice. It just so happened that Wyatt was a special kind of awful at dealing with stress, and translating his anxiety into logical, concise sentences had never been his strong suit.

With an almost hypnotic slowness, and a heaving sigh, Wyatt sunk further and further into his chair, arms folded sullenly across his chest. Oh, he could’ve spent the next hour ranting - just [i]screaming[/i] his head off about the injustice that Tatiana had done him, but it wouldn’t have accomplished a thing.

If was going to be honest, Tatiana’s offer was almost too good to pass up, if you ignored the whole Carrington thing. After all, where else was he going to get paid to go on a luxurious - not to mention [i]free[/i] - holiday around Europe? This [i]was[/i] the deal of a lifetime, and he’d have to be a couple muffins short of a baker’s dozen to turn it down. 

“Yeah, it could be worse, and just as an FYI, [i]‘shacking up’[/i] wasn’t what I was worrying about.” He finally conceded, after a long pause. His voice was tinged with a hint of sardonicism, but on the whole, he was being completely sincere. After all, he couldn’t exactly say he was looking forward to spending another Christmas on his own, getting blackout drunk on shot after shot of vodka. While the mere thought of getting within a ten foot radius of [i]the[/i] Cassiopeia Carrington was nearly enough to send him running for the hills, the pros far outweighed the cons. Even if he had to be her daughter’s pretend-boyfriend for five weeks, it’d be worth it.

...Maybe.

“Okay, you got me, and uh, sorry about the yelling. I have no idea where that came from.” Sheepishly, he rubbed at the nape of his neck, shoulders rising in a quick half-shrug. “Did I blow it?”