Page 57 of Recipe for Temptation

She made a wry face. “You didn’t give me much of a choice, slave driver.”

Chuckling, he took her by the hand and led her inside.

Reese glanced around the crowded restaurant in disbelief. “I thought you said Tuesdays are slow.”

Michael slanted her a grin. “This is slow.”

He hung a right, ushering her down a short corridor to the kitchen. Just beyond the swinging door was a fast-paced world of sweat, stress and chaos punctuated by the noisy clang of pots and pans.

Michael escorted Reese through the bustling labyrinth of workspaces to a semi-private area partitioned off by a long, stainless steel table. From there she’d have an up-close-and-personal view of the action without getting in the way.

Moments after she’d sat down, Michael set a steaming plate in front of her. Reese’s mouth watered as the most heavenly aroma wafted up her nostrils.

“What’s this?” she breathed, eyeing the appetizing meal.

“Another house specialty. Bourbon-glazed pork tenderloin with caramelized plantains.”

“Oh my.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Eons ago. We stopped for an early lunch.”

“Good. Then I expect you to clean your plate.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Reese said, already seizing her fork.

Michael smiled as he poured her a glass of wine.

“Riesling,” she said wonderingly. “You remembered.”

“Of course.” His smile deepened. “I remember everything.”

She grinned. “Don’t I know it.”

He winked at her. “I’ll be back to check up on you later. Enjoy the show.”

And what a show it was, a riveting choreography of cuisine that was unlike anything Reese had ever seen before. As a self-professed foodie, she’d always assumed she knew what went on behind the scenes of a busy restaurant. Now, with a front-row seat to one of the most famous kitchens in the country, she realized how little she’d understood about the level of coordination that went into preparing an entrée before it was served to customers. And everyone, from the line cooks to the sous chef, knew their roles and executed them with brisk efficiency.

It came as no surprise to Reese that Michael’s kitchen ran like a well-oiled machine. Though he was clearly in charge, he didn’t yell at his crew like some obnoxious, foulmouthed tyrant. He barked orders, but he was never obscene. He scowled when mistakes were made, but he never spared praise. He was intensely focused, but he could disarm with a sudden grin and a joke that drew raucous laughter. He didn’t have to resort to bullying for his commanding presence to be felt throughout the kitchen. His employees understood that he demanded perfection, and they did their damnedest to deliver it.

What did surprise Reese was how hands-on Michael was. He made a final inspection of every plate that went out and usually added finishing touches—a garnish of celery leaves on lobster, an artful drizzle of sauce over a chicken dish. Unlike many other celebrity chefs who owned restaurants, Michael was no figurehead. He was the heart and soul of Wolf’s Soul.

The hours flew by. Before Reese knew it, it was eleven o’clock and the restaurant was closed. While Michael was out front seeing off the last of his customers, she shocked the staff by pitching in to clean up the kitchen, overriding their protests. Michael returned to the sight of her elbow-deep in a sink full of dishes, laughing in response to someone’s off-color joke.

When his employees glanced around and saw him frozen in the doorway with an arrested expression, they sobered at once, no doubt afraid they’d get in trouble for allowing his guest to wash dishes. Undaunted, Reese met Michael’s gaze with a look of haughty defiance, silently daring him to reprimand anyone.

Without a word he went to work emptying a trash bin, and the cleanup efforts continued in cheerful camaraderie until the kitchen was spotless.

After everyone had gone home, Reese and Michael collapsed into chairs at the table, exhaling sighs of happy exhaustion.

“What a day,” Reese declared, kicking off her sandals.

Michael grinned, propping his big, booted feet on the table and lounging back. “Nothing like an honest day’s work. Well—at least for one of us.”

“Hey!” Reese laughingly protested, slapping him playfully on the leg. “Shopping with Asha Dubois is work!”

“Right,” he drawled, mouth twitching. “I’m sure it was really strenuous for you, lifting those glasses of champagne to your lips and lugging around all those heavy boxes of designer shoes. Poor baby. You’re gonna need weeks to recover.”

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