Page 1 of Filthy Chef

one

Jason

Why isn’t this bus moving?

A woman stands at the front, fumbling with her transit card.

Flustered by the digital reader, she runs her fingers nervously through the waves of her medium, bouncy waves, tucking a curl behind her ear.

From that sweet, bitable lobe dangles an earring in the shape of a knife. That’s cute. So is the Marilyn Monroe cut of her bombshell-blonde hair.

“No, face down. Turn the card face down!” The driver is yelling at her, but she’s not getting it.

“It is face down,” she says. “I can’t get it to work.”

“Lord, give me strength for the tourists,” sighs the driver.

“I’m not a tourist,” she corrects. Her voice is meek, but at least she sticks up for herself. Passengers at the back are starting to grumble.

I can’t watch this anymore; it’s too painful.

“Relax, Larry, I got this,” I tell the driver as I jump into action, snatching the poor woman’s card out of her hand. Before she has time to react, I successfully scan her bus pass and hand it back to her.

“Oh my gosh, thank you!” She shoves the card back into her wallet, quickly explaining, “I’m not from around here. I’m gonna be late for my first round of interviews, and I thought the driver would kick me off! Thank you so much.”

“Larry’s bark is worse than his bite,” I say, beaming down at her, ready for her to glance up and receive the full effect of what one interviewer from Food & Wine magazine once described as “the most elusive grin in Dallas.” The journalist’s words, not mine. It’s sort of true. I keep to myself and rarely give interviews.

The hapless passenger sweeps her hair from her eyes. Everything I thought I knew, she smashes to pieces. Those sexy waves frame a face so stunning that I forget I’m standing at the front of a bus that’s supposed to be moving. Emerald-green eyes that know too much for her early 20s. Full strawberry-red lips that could bring me to my knees. And her skin? Luminous. Biteable and tempting as candy. Flawless—except for a tiny scar down her cheekbone.

My grin fades. I’m dumbfounded.

“And my bark is only gonna get louder until you two love birds have a damn seat!”

Love birds? Who’s Larry talking to?

As if reading my mind, the woman before me says in a hushed tone, “I think he means us.”

Her blush reaches the tip of the vee in the pink top she wears under a white peplum blazer and matching chiffon skirt that’s so short and breezy it barely reaches her mid-thigh. Interesting choice for a job interview. She looks like a slice of strawberry cake. I crave a bite, or several, and I have no intention of sharing.

The woman brushes past me and finds a seat. I can’t help myself: I watch the way her budget heels make her thick ass sway, her skirt hem kicking up teasingly against the backs of her glowing thighs as she walks. Designer or Target brand heels, the effect is all the same on my cock when a woman with a backside like that walks away from me.

Inwardly, I groan and cover my midsection with my knife case and take my seat across from where she sits. She clutches a metal bar and grins at me tightly.

The bus resumes its path down Main Street. When we pass Elm and Dealy Plaza, the Kennedy assassination conspiracy theorists are out in full force, handing out their pamphlets. The gorgeous green eyes across from me widen as the bus lurches past the grassy knoll, the book depository, then makes a sharp turn up Houston Street. Realization hits her.

She makes no sound over the wheezing, lurching of the bus, but I see her lips move in a silent, “Holy shit.”

She must feel me staring because soon her gaze turns to me. Busted.

I give her a polite nod, and her shy smile rewards me.

The bus stops in the West End, and she stands to exit, so I do too, even though I’m headed up to the Design District to deal with a food inspection disaster at one of my company’s newest acquisitions.

“I-I’ve got a few minutes. Can I buy you a coffee to thank you for saving a damsel in distress?” She nods to the coffee cart near the alleyway between the Rushmore Hotel and a karaoke bar.

“Sure, why not?” I sound way more casual than I am, but the casual part disappears when I hand the barista my card.

“Hey,” she laughs. “I said I was buying.”

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