If you want to become a great chef, you have to work with great chefs. –Gordon Ramsay
Guy
“I . . .” She glances around the interior of the truck where she’s stacked some ingredients and boxes full of stuff. “I do need help. That would be great.”
Her words are fine, but she won’t meet my eyes and her face is so bright red it nearly matches her hair. It’s adorable.
She turns away, scrambling to throw stuff into one of the boxes and then shoving it at me. “Here. I’ll be right there.”
I take the box and leave without a word, giving her a chance to collect herself.
Maybe I should be offended that she vehemently denied ever wanting to have sex with me, but while the blow to my ego is more than minimal, I am man enough to understand that I’m not entitled to intimacy from someone just because I crave it.
And she’s right. Getting involved with each other would be a terrible idea for so many reasons.
A memory flashes in my mind, when she kissed me at the charity gala, followed immediately by the sensation of her laughing form trapped in my arms during the egg incident. There’s something inescapable about her. Alluring. She’s all sweet candy and still a little spice. There’s the physical attraction, sure, but there’s more than that, this sort of mixture of honesty and vulnerability mixed with strength.
I unlock the door to Savor, still awaiting permits but already stocked and outfitted for business, and head back to the storage area to get out the mixers and supplies we might need, setting them out on the counter. My heart thumps a tad wildly in my chest but I don’t take the time to examine why the organ is excitable at the thought of spending time with Scarlett.
My phone dings and I pull it from my pocket. There’s a text from Oliver.
Let me know if you want help with the Marie situation.
Somehow when he was over earlier, my divorce—or lack thereof—had come up. Oliver hinted strongly that he could help push things along. How? I’m not entirely sure. I think the man has blackmail material on everyone in town and then some. I don’t want to be beholden to him more than I already am, though, so I told him thanks but no thanks.
The door swings open and I forget all about Oliver and Marie and possibly my own name as Scarlett walks into the kitchen, her hair a messy bun on her head, her face bare of makeup. She’s fresh and sweet, and nothing at all like the fiery amazon that launched cupcakes at my head just short while ago.
She glances around uncertainly. “Where should I . . .?” She holds up the box.
“Here.” Stalking in her direction, I take it. “You can put your coat in one of the cubbies over there.” I motion to the open doorway by the entrance, an alcove for employees to leave their personal items.
I wash my hands while she hangs up her coat and puts on an apron, not because my hands are dirty but because I need to do something other than ogle her.
She walks over to where I set the box and starts pulling items out.
I stop beside her. “I got out some things that might help.” I point out the mixers, bowls, and other accoutrements. “Now tell me what to do.”
“We’ll need to bake and cool, but the most time-consuming part will be decorating. The theme is Beatles, so I’m doing little Beatle heads for the fondant decoration.”
I stare at her, surprised and confused. “Beetle…heads?”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “Sorry, not beetles. The Beatles. Like John, Paul, George and Ringo, not the black bugs with twitchy claw hands.”
“Thank God for that.”
She smiles and looks down at the list in her hand. “There are stencils for their heads—outlines of hair and mustaches, basically, and a guitar stencil. I premade and sealed the fondant.”
“Okay.”
“Here’s the order details and recipe lists. There are four different flavors with six different fondant tops.” She hands it to me and our fingers brush, making my heart stutter in my chest for a moment. “We’ll need to make extra of each, just in case.”
“Of course.” I focus on the list in my hand, scanning down the ingredients and details, my eyes halting at a surprising ingredient.
“Sour cream?”
She nods.
“That’s why they’re so moist.”
She flushes and her eyes dart away, clearing her throat around a laugh. “Um. Yeah. An old trick my granny taught me.”
I keep reading. “This is a pretty intense order.”
“Yeah.” She bites her lip. “They’re spending a pretty penny, so I gotta get everything right. It’s a sweet story, actually. They met in Strawberry Fields.”
“In Central Park?”
She nods. It’s a memorial, a couple acres of real estate directly across from the Dakota Apartments where John Lennon lived and died.
“They are both big fans.”
“Well, with wedding flavors like Rocky Road Raccoon, Sexy Cinnamon Sadie, and Hey Jude Peppermint Java, I would hope so.”
She grins suddenly, the movement lighting up her whole face. “I came up with the names, you like them?”
An answering smile tugs at my mouth. “I do.”
We stare at each other for a few long seconds and then her smile falters.
“Right. Let’s get going. Time waits for no woman in need of cake.”
We organize the ingredients and move around the kitchen, getting the batter made quickly with the mixers and loading the trays once they are done.
I’ve cooked with a lot of chefs, both experts and aspiring, but I’m not sure I’ve ever made cupcakes with one. And it’s not as awkward as I had thought. We move around each other with surprising ease, exchanging bags of flour, cartons of eggs, and both of us double-checking the sugar before dumping it into the mixers.
Once things are baking, we work on the fondant tops, standing next to each other, each of us pressing out a roll on the counter to get it stretched and pliant.
“I’m sorry about the salt thing,” I say.
She glances over at me, stopping her rolling efforts to stare, her pink mouth popped open in surprise.
“Fred helped me, but it’s my fault. It was my idea. And I wouldn’t have done it if I had known you wouldn’t taste the first batch.”
She shrugs. “It’s okay. I normally taste test, but I was…distracted, I guess. And you’re making up for it now.”
We get caught in each other’s gaze again but this time I yank my eyes away, rolling out my fondant with renewed vigor.
She hands me some of the stencils and I get to work cutting and tracing with a precision cutter while she continues rolling out some black fondant.
“So, when are you opening the rest of this building?”
“There’s still some construction here in the dining area, you probably noticed on your way in. But it should be opened by the end of the month. It’s going to be a whole experience for diners, from the sweet to the savory.”
She bites her lip and I squash down the tension filling my gut. I don’t like that she’s uneasy about our situation, even though it shouldn’t bother me. It’s business. That’s it. But still. Maybe I should use this opportunity to needle her and make her even more uncomfortable. But I can’t. Instead, I change the subject.
“What made you decide to start a food truck?”
She clears her throat and focuses on stenciling shapes from her black fondant. I watch her work, appreciating her form and her toned arms. Not really surprising considering her job. Her movements are surprisingly efficient. She’s surprisingly efficient. Except for the flour on her shoulder. “Well, mostly I was having trouble finding a job at a real restaurant because I set a pretty influential chef on fire.”
I rub the back of my neck in chagrin. “And he told everyone? What a dick.”
She bursts out laughing and I feel a thousand times better.
“It was a lot harder than I thought it would be. There’s a lack of available space, you know.”
“I hadn’t heard,” I say drily.
She smiles. “It’s more than that, though. The permit process is a nightmare. Did you know they only give out a certain number, a little over 4,000, and they haven’t adjusted the available amount since 1980. So, there’s a huge waiting list. You may not have to wait though, if you’re willing to spend $20,000.00 to get a black-market permit. On top of that, there are excessive regulations for where and when you can park, and you have to follow all the appropriate health code regulations, which means being inspected and storing everything in a commissary overnight.”
The timers go off and we remove the tins and set them out to cool, putting in another batch while we continue to work on the tops.
Through all of this, part of my mind stews over our situation. If only there was a way to tie in her food truck with the rest of the block…. But no. It would never work. The theme is completely off, and Oliver will never agree. He’s a sophist when it comes to details, and yet surprisingly superstitious. If it’s not effortless, he thinks it’s a sign that it’s not meant to be. For a brilliant rich guy, he’s also somewhat absurd.
The cakes cool and we continue to work together, piping frosting onto each small cake and meticulously pressing the fondant tops on hundreds and hundreds of times over. Time passes in a whir of activity, and then suddenly—we’re done.
She watches me set the final cupcake into the plastic clamshell container, ready to be transported to….
“Where’s the wedding at?” I ask her.
“Bay Room.”
“I’ll have these shipped over in the morning so they can be there for you to set up the display whenever you need to.” I turn to face her. She’s leaning one side against the counter and I mimic her stance.
“Are you sure?” There’s a crease between her brows and gray smudges underneath her eyes. She’s got to be exhausted.
My eyes wander over her features. She has a little bit of white frosting stuck to the side of her bottom lip. “You can trust me. I wouldn’t turn this into a prank, not after all that work.”
I glance over at the clock. It’s a bit after midnight. Not too shabby.
“I believe you, it’s just…. Why are you helping me?” She steps closer.
I shrug. “It was my fault, which makes it my responsibility to make it right.”
“But it really doesn’t. And we’re at war, remember?”
Without thought, I move toward her, tracing my thumb over the generous bow of her bottom lip to remove the frosting. I bring my thumb to my mouth, sucking the sweet topping and gauging her reaction.
Her mouth pops open. Her eyes dilate, and an answering pulse responds throughout my entire body.
And just like that, everything inside me spills over, like a pot of boiling water left on high.
The strength of my own need is a shock to the core. It’s ridiculous. Improbable and completely self-indulgent. We’re completely wrong for each other.
And yet the memory of our first and last kiss hits me like a cast iron pan to the head. That wasn’t a fluke. Her scent overwhelms me, warm vanilla and sugar and I’m starving for it.
My body takes over my brain and I can only watch as my hands reach out and slide into her hair. I rest my thumbs on her cheeks, feeling the heat of her. I want it.
She doesn’t stop me, doesn’t pull away, even though I keep my hold light enough that all she has to do is move back.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she moves into me and tilts up, bringing herself so close, a mere inch is all that’s needed to bring our mouths together.
When her tongue slides against mine, I lift her onto the prep table. She spreads her legs easily and I step between them. Her hands are greedy little beggars, pulling my shirt from my pants and skipping up my back, exploring the tension, rubbing my spine like I’m a cat.
I groan and she gasps and then my hands are insatiable, untying her apron at her back so I can glide my fingers up the soft flesh of her stomach and up farther, cupping her breasts with light palms over her bra.
Her mouth leaves mine for a moment, but only so she can pull the apron off and then she’s unbuttoning her shirt with trembling fingers. I try to help her, but I can’t focus on anything but the creamy skin she’s exposing, and a sheer lavender bra that does little to hide her curves and shape.
With a moan, I sink in and suck at her breasts over her bra. She goes a little wild, holding my head in place while simultaneously trying to press our hips closer.
“Guy.” My name is a plea and the sensation of her cloth-covered nipple, hard in my mouth, along with her hips struggling for mine is almost too much. I’m no longer an experienced man, I’m back to being a teenage virgin.
And then my phone dings with incoming texts, three times in rapid succession.
The sound is like an alarm going off in both our heads. She rears back, her breathing erratic, and I release my hold, walking over to where I left my phone to check the message.
It’s a string of texts from Emma, mostly random emojis and one blurry picture of the side of her face. For someone with a nerve disorder who struggles to walk and even reach for things sometimes, the girl sure knows how to use a cell phone and iPad. Her timing is impeccable. She texts me mostly, and Oliver. At first, I was surprised they were communicating. Not that he’s a bad guy, or anything, you’d just think a billionaire would have better things to do with his time. But he’s always been one of the few people in my life who enjoys spending time with the girls and Emma gets a kick out of all the goat gifs he sends her.
I put the phone aside and stare at Scarlett across the room.
She’s staring at me, dazed, lips swollen. I did that. A surge of macho satisfaction sweeps through me and I walk back over to her, ready to pick up where we left off, but she glances around, as if just now realizing her position and yanks her legs and shirt together.
“I’m sorry,” she says. Her cheeks tinge pink.
My hands reach for her, but I force them down, clenching my fists at my sides. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“It’s just…this is . . .” One hand lifts and then drops in ineffectual gesturing.
“I know, I know.” I step back further. “I’m a butt-sniffing turd nugget.”
She bursts out a laugh and a smile tugs at my lips. I can’t believe I can smile at all, considering most of my focus and blood flow is contained on my aching erection. Watching her laugh, unrestrained, her clothes a total mess, and yet still as beautiful as the most imperfect and enticing thing in the world isn’t helping the problem.
“It’s not that. This is a bad idea.”
Something in my chest aches. A bad idea? Not to me. Not at the current moment. As a matter of fact, touching her is the best idea I can think of, but I can’t tell her that. Not without her giving her the upper hand. And even though what she’s saying is exactly what I was thinking myself, hearing the words still stings.
“Is it a bad idea, though?” I throw it out there like it’s a joke.
She watches me carefully and then her eyes lower. “Besides the whole trying to commandeer my spot—which is enough on its own—I’ve dated chefs before. It never ends well.”
I should let it go. She’s right. I can’t be with someone I’m actively trying to…get rid of—and I mean that in the least murderous way possible. And still, I can’t stop the words. “Maybe you were just with the wrong chefs.”
She’s already shaking her head in denial. Not meeting my eyes, buttoning her shirt up with hands that tremble slightly. I want to reach for her, hold her, but I can’t.
“It wasn’t just chefs. And it’s not only them. It’s me. I am too trusting. Too willing to love and ignore and let people manipulate me into believing they cared. Every boyfriend I ever had either cheated, lied, or both. My last serious relationship ended up being married. Hell, even when I first moved here and tried to date around like a normal person, someone tried to drug me. I’m just…never quite enough.”
“So, you’ve given up on relationships entirely? That doesn’t seem like you.” Scarlett is stubborn. That I know for a fact. And I don’t know exactly what it is, whether it’s the baking, the sweetness and honesty, or the playful happiness she exudes like a fragrance, but Scarlett is like a comfortable blanket. A sexy, alluring, comfortable blanket. She deserves love and romance and everything, if that’s what she wants.
“You don’t know me.”
She’s right, I don’t really know her. Another part of her little speech chews on me. Technically, I’m also a married man, but that’s different. It’s on paper only. I would be divorced by now if Marie wasn’t trying to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. But I don’t tell Scarlett. I doubt she would care either way considering we aren’t even dating.
More concerning to me is her self-deprecatory remarks. “Your past experiences…. Those have nothing to do with you and everything to do with them being assholes.”
And then I catch myself and the words register. I am an asshole. I have been, in her eyes and apparently everyone else. I nod. “Point proven.”
She’s shaking her head, reaching out a hand then dropping it to her side. “Wait, Guy, you’re not—”
“I hold no false illusions about myself. I know I can be…heartless.”
“Sometimes. But you’re human. And you’re not an asshole all the time, otherwise you wouldn’t have helped me tonight when you didn’t have to.”
“No. You were right before, I am. This changes nothing.”
She doesn’t get upset; she considers me, head half-cocked, and she smiles. The move is so angelic, sweet, with a hint of vixen. “I guess we’re still sworn enemies, then.”
“I guess so.”
“Sworn enemies who sometimes make out.” She winces and her brows pull together in concern. “Is that normal?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“You don’t do this with all your arch nemeses?”
“No.”
We exchange a glance, the air full of pent-up lust and regret, fighting it out between us.
“I better put everything away,” I say.
“I’ll help,” she says.
“Will you need help tomorrow with the set up?”
Her brows lift in surprise, and then she shakes her head. “No. Thank you, though. It’s probably best if we keep our distance.”
I turn away, grabbing some dirty pans to put in the sink. “You’re right.”
We clean up in silence, the void between us growing.