Page 1 of Santa's Pretty Helper

One

Gabe

Fire flares in front of my eyes, heat searing my skin as I shake the stainless steel pan in my hand with practiced precision. The liquor I just poured over the simmering bananas slowly burns off, the flames shrinking back down to nothing.

There’s something immensely satisfying about watching ingredients come together exactly as I’ve intended. Cooking is a symphony of heat and flavor and timing, and I’m the conductor. I coax perfection from raw, disparate ingredients and present people with a melody they’ll never forget. I do it every single night, over and over again. I come home from work sweaty and exhausted, hands cramping, and I can’t wait to do it all again tomorrow.

There’s nothing else in the world I’d rather do. Food is my passion. My obsession.

Well, one of my obsessions.

The other is currently sitting in the dining room here at Haute Maison, the restaurant where I’ve been the head chef for the past two years.

Bella Holland. Younger sister of my best friend and sous chef Eric. Subject of every single one of my fantasies. The woman who consumes my thoughts every day and my dreams every night.

Twenty-year-oldBella Holland, I should add. Which makes me almost twice her age. I’m nearly forty. I graduated high school the year she was born, for fuck’s sake. I was cooking at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Paris while she was learning to read and write.

I wipe my forearm across my brow as though that will somehow wipe my tortured thoughts about Bella away. It doesn’t—I don’t think anything can—but it does bring me back to the present.

It’s a busy Friday night at Haute Maison, and the kitchen is a cacophony of sound. Shouted orders, the sizzling of a dozen pans, the clatter of knives on cutting boards, the clank of dishes in the sink. The dinner rush is always the busiest, most hectic part of our night. If the restaurant is a duck, the kitchen is the duck’s legs, paddling frantically beneath the surface to keep everything running smoothly.

I turn down the heat on the bananas, and then check on a pan of sizzling mushrooms. I add a splash more white wine to the pan, and while there are other things I should be checking on, my legs take me to the edge of the kitchen so I can see into the dining room.

Where I have a clear view to Bella’s table.

She’s dressed a festive red sweater that hugs her slender frame and emphasizes her full breasts. Her long, blond curls tumble over her shoulders, and my fingers tingle at the sight of those curls. I want to touch them. Wrap them around my hand. See how they look spilling over my pillow.

She’s sitting with her best friend and roommate Madison, and they’re talking and laughing easily over a glass of wine.She looks relaxed. Radiant. Like she’s glowing from within. She always looks like that, as though the best lighting crew in the world follows her around, making sure she always looks ethereal.

Bella shifts, and my attention dips down to her legs. She has this way of sitting that drives me absolutely insane for some reason. She crosses her slim legs, but then she tucks the ankle of her top leg behind the calf of her bottom leg, and it’s so simultaneously sexy and adorable that it makes my head explode a little each time she does it.

Goddamn, those legs. How many times have I stroked myself, imagining them wrapped around my waist as I lift her and pin her against a wall? As I—

“Chef! Bananas!”

Eric’s frantic shout snaps me out of my horny and completely inappropriate trance.

I whirl back towards the kitchen, but it’s too late—the sweet, sticky scent of burned sugar fills the air. The bananas Foster I was sautéing is now an inedible, blackened mess.

“Fuck,” I growl as I grab a towel and yank the pan off the heat, furious with myself for getting so distracted during the peak of dinner service. Normally I’m laser-focused in the kitchen, but knowing Bella is sitting out there, waiting to taste my food…I’m a mess.

I feel Eric beside me before I see him. He has the same blond curls as his sister, although his are cropped close. “All good?” he asks, and when I turn, I see his brow knitted in concern. Because he knows it’s not like me to let something as stupid as burning a simple dessert happen. I’m a model of focus and control in everything I do.

But not tonight, apparently.

“Fine,” I grit out, then suck in a breath. It’s not like I can tell him why I got distracted. What a fun conversation thatwould be.Sorry I ruined the bananas. It’s just that I was completely distracted perving on your twenty-year-old sister and wondering what she sounds like when she comes.He’d punch me in the face, and I’d goddamn well deserve it.

My face is hot as I scrape the ruined bananas into the garbage and quickly start a fresh batch. I can feel several pairs of eyes on me as I pour the rum onto the bananas, but no one dares to say anything.

Eric is still hovering, and for a second, I wonder if he saw me staring at Bella. I’ll deny it if he asks, obviously. His arms are crossed over his wide chest as he stares at me.

Maybe he’s not staring at me. Maybe he’s just making sure I don’t ruin another batch of tonight’s featured dessert.

“You sure?” he asks, so low his voice is barely audible over the din of the kitchen.

I nod, not looking at him because I don’t trust my face not to give me away. “Definitely.”

He claps me on the shoulder and then tosses a towel over his own. “Just don’t burn Bella’s food, okay? She’s having dinner with Madison tonight.”

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