Page 14 of A Taste of Christmas Magic

His thick, dark brows rose, and Chloe thought he looked like a hero on the cover of a romance novel: an Italian tycoon or a pissed-off marquis cornered at a ball and forced to behave with a boring debutante.

Focus.

“I did what you said. I found a cookbook.” She wasn’t sure if that was exactly what it was. “It’s really quite unusual. Some of it is handwritten with sketches and the most unusual side notes, and—”

“Point, Chloe.”

“Right, yes.” She licked her lower lip nervously trying to corral her racing mind. “I chose a recipe that seemed pretty simple, something I could handle. And I tried it and…and…I’m not sure. I need an expert opinion. Too much salt? Too little? Too bland? I want it to wow. I love sweet potatoes, so I started there. I’ll need to practice with the pastry, obviously, but it tastes…not like I thought. Sort of like the beginning of a melody that should intrigue the listener and make them think of castle walls and open windows, mist creeping in, but it just stays flat, doesn’t build, doesn’t beckon. And Ilovesweet potatoes,” she practically wailed. “Oh, I said that already.”

“Sweet potatoes have appeal, but they don’t really pop,” Rustin said, thinking he’d finally caught the point of her rant. “They add more texture than flavor. They are subtle but complement other flavors, provide a base from which to build.”

“Great,” Chloe said, doing a happy hop. “I can work with that. A base. What do I need to add?”

She reached into her pocket and grabbed her phone as if she’d record his answer. “I need help, Rustin. I’ll get down on my knees. I’ll pay you.”

“This will be interesting.” The woman who’d blocked her on the deck strode back into the kitchen. “Clearly you have a fan, Rustin.”

She was long and lean and coiled her ponytail into a perfect low braid as she leaned against a counter. She smiled wickedly at Rustin, and then her pale blue gaze, sparkling with contempt, shifted to her, and Chloe gulped on her dismay. Were the supermodel and Rustin a couple? She seemed like the type of woman Rustin would go for. Beautiful. Edgy. Maybe that was why she was so hostile; she was marking her territory.

As if Rustin would look athertwice.

But you’re hoping he will.

Chloe corralled her racing thoughts. Rustin had always been a fantasy, and he needed to stay there. She needed an entrée recipe and appetizers to serve at the meeting this afternoon, not drool to add to her stained clothes collection.

“Don’t let me interrupt.” The beauty moved to cock her hip against a massive stove. “You were about to get on your knees and beg. Not sure the health inspectors will approve that outcome, and you won’t be the first unwelcome woman Rustin’s had to hold off with a cast iron skillet.”

“Rebekah. Chill.” His voice was cold. “We’re not done talking about what happened in the kitchen earlier, but we’re done for now.”

“What happened in the kitchen?” Chloe couldn’t help asking.

Rustin’s eyes glittered, but Rebekah didn’t seem intimidated.

“Chef,” she said and walked out of the kitchen and joined a group of people at a long table. Chloe only recognized Rustin’s younger brother, Lucas, who was doing something at a cool-looking bar at the end of the room.

“Wow. A bar?”

“Give me five,” he said to Rebekah’s back, still a clear ‘back the F off’ edge to his voice.

“Remember the cameras, Chef.”

“Cameras?” Chloe parroted, looking around.

“Marketing. Rebekah’s idea.”

“Huh?”

“Seriously, Clo Beau, how could you sit at the counter your whole childhood and grow up with at Millie’s diner and learn nothing?”

Shame washed through her. How could she explain her imagination to him? How she could stare out a window and lose herself for an hour or more? Or start reading and lose half a day?

“Will you help me, please, Rustin? Chef?” She tasted the word and liked it. “Please. I won’t even object to you calling meClo Beau.”

He frowned. “I remember you serving with Miss Millie at the soup kitchen twice a week.” His face twisted with distaste. “Did you really pick upnothing?”

She stared at her toes. “I tried.” She worked the word out of her tight throat. “I always muddled things, made a mess…got distracted. Everyone just got mad and took over and stopped asking me for help cooking.”

Rustin had thrived with Grandma Millie’s tutelage. He’d learned a skill, built a career.

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