Page 13 of Go Cook Yourself

Ruby yanks her hand away and nibbles at her lip as she stares at me. She’s raised her eyebrows with expectation. It’s like a glimpse into a shyer, needier side of her, and it gives me ideas I can’t allow to germinate. It’s been months since I last kissed awoman, let alone slept with one, but that’s not going to happen here. No way. I wish she’d stop staring at me like that.

“You said you’d redress my bandage?”

Shit. Am I really this arrogant to think this mysterious stranger is interested? One flyer has bruised my ego harder than if fifteen women rejected me. Ruby side-eyes me as she changes her hairstyle again, disarming me instantly. Kinked waves cascade from the tight elastic, and the nape of her neck is hidden, although I still imagine brushing kisses to her skin. I rub my stubble. Fans on the handful of TikToks I made before I got too busy told me the move made me appear wise, but I choke as I catch my reflection in one of the chrome ovens. I look like an ass.

I point to the chair in the dining area and grunt, “Yes. Sit.”

I tug on my bottom lip as I stare at her hands. There’s a couple of scars from kitchen incidents. Every chef or cook who’s spent more than a month working in a kitchen has them. I’ve got several and one or two on my arms, too.

She spies me warily as she walks to the chair.Do not stare at her bum.But it’s so damn curvy and draws me in like beef dripping on roast potatoes.

I shove several sticks of gum into my gob and release a groan of quiet exasperation before working the gum slowly. I need more mouth guards if I want my teeth to survive this winter. In fact, with Ruby in my kitchen until Christmas, I need to find a mouth guard wholesaler.

Chapter Eight

Ruby

I hold my breath as Garett slowly peels the plaster off and unwraps the bandage. His fingers are coarse, as expected. My grandma called it asbestos fingers—the effect of touching burning things so often that you burn off your fingertips. There’s rarely anything glamorous about working in a kitchen, yet I’ve smiled more this afternoon than in months, even with Garett around.

“Kath did a good job on your bandage,” Garett murmurs.

Our thighs are close but not touching as we perch on stools in the dining area. My pencil skirt stretches uncomfortably over my bottom, which is hidden from his view but still makes me feel more on show than I like. Amber is a curve-free size ten, but I’m nearer fourteen. We’ve always been jealous of each other’s bodies. I can’t keep wearing her clothes, but I can’t find the time or money to go shopping while caring for my sister and running the cookery school.

The skirt stretches, but it can only do so much. Garett looks up as I pull the hem over my knees to my thighs to allow a little freedom.

“It’s Amber’s,” I mutter, but he doesn’t respond. He’s not what I expected from his videos and the couple of articles I’ve read. He’s got the sexy, brooding thing down, but his attitude goes from frosty to fake-friendly at a moment’s notice.

He unravels the rest of the bandage. Should I talk to him as a colleague or as a guy who has treated me like crap for most of the day? My fangirling of him stopped the moment he was a dick to me, although I presume his redressing the bandage is his apology.

He eases the gauze away from my cut, and I hiss loudly.

“Sorry.” His voice is deep and throbs nearly as much as my palm. Blood congeals around the cut like it had kept bleeding after Kath bandaged it. Wounds and blood don’t freak me out, but my stomach rolls. “It needs cleaning and a new bandage.”

He gets the items he needs and returns swiftly. Sweat trickles down my back. I’m so hot from hunger and seeing the blood that I take my chance to readjust my skirt again, but I can’t do anything. I need to get it off. He turns as I fan myself between my legs. Fuck. His eyes are wide, and I mumble something about heat and hunger. He leaves again. This time, he returns with focaccia.

“Thanks.” I shove a large piece of the bread straight into my mouth.

A moan nearly slips out. The bread is like heaven, with a little bit of salt and a tease of rosemary.

He shrugs. “It’s just leftovers from my demonstration.” He opens my hands and positions a warm, soapy cloth above the wound. “This is going to sting a little.”

He draws the soapy, warm cloth across my wound. I jerk in his hand, but he squeezes my fingers reassuringly. “Keep eating the focaccia. It will help.” His voice is gentle, and I lean closer, my stomach flopping.

His jaw moves up and down as he chews gum. The mint scent radiates from him, combining with the cinnamon that teased me every time he passed me that day. The movement adds to his brooding sexiness, and I kick myself. I’m here for work and have seen too much of his jerk side today. This misplaced attraction isfrom a lack of good sex and meeting a chef I’ve fantasised about before. Nothing more.

“I know you don’t live here, as I know all the bakeries nearby. So what brought you to our little cookery school?” he asks as he dries the wound before adding antiseptic cream. I don’t jerk this time. He blows on the antiseptic. It’s just to dry it, but his breath on my skin makes my stomach coil, and I pull my lower lip between my teeth and suck it.

He glances up and catches my movement. His eyes lock with mine, and all the air is yanked out of the room. “I was surprised to see you running it today.”

“I could tell from how you lost your shit,” I reply, my lips quirking.

Garett harrumphs but doesn’t say any more. A curl of brown hair falls across his forehead. It’s a cute addition to his stern face. Hints of a tattoo peek out from under his right sleeve. His green checked shirt is on display now, and his cookery school apron hangs up on a hook at the side of the room. His shirt grips his muscles like a second skin, and he fills out his jeans in a way that necessitates the internal reminder that I’ve just broken up with Neil, and any crushes, especially on this jerk, would be dangerous.

A whirring dishwasher is the only sound as he covers the wound. He works delicately but efficiently. I wait for pain, but it doesn’t come. His fingers are strokes of soft fur against my skin. My limbs tingle, and goosebumps cover my arms. A shiver hits the back of my neck as he secures the gauze. I manage to keep my body still, although I bite the flesh of my cheeks to do it.

I rush my words. “Amber wanted someone urgently because her doctors said she needed to rest. I was keen to get away, so here I am.”

I shove more bread into my gob. His fingers brush my skin as he wraps a fresh bandage. The movement tightens the coil in my belly.

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