Page 5 of Say Yes to the Chef

I look pretty well put together in a simple black sundress with crisscrossing straps down the back paired with low-heeled, strappy sandals—andnowI know why the girls insisted I bring a black dress to a resort vacation.

Sneaky little shits.

When I open the door again, my escort smiles fondly and gives an approving nod. “You look lovely, Mrs. Rhone. Follow me, please.”

Down a few halls we travel, and after a handful of turns, she leads me into a room where everyone is already seated around a rectangular table, three sides filled and one left empty. All eyes turn toward me as I enter, and immediately, sweat beads up at the base of my neck and swamps my palms.

The woman who escorted me walks deeper into the room and pulls out the only remaining chair.Of courseit’s right smack dab in thecenter, sandwiched betweenone, two, three, four…eleven people, most of which appear to be coupled up.

I smile even as I curse my children for doing this to me.

As if beingaloneon vacation isn’t reminder enough that I am nowalone, I get to enjoy a romantic dining experience with eleven strangers.

“I’m going to murder them,” I whisper through my smile as I sit down in my seat.

“Did you say something?” the man directly to my left asks.

“No, sorry.” I meet his gaze only briefly, then focus on my hands in my lap.

I could leave, right? Just excuse myself, apologize for the mix-up, and hurry back to my room—

The frosted glass doors directly in front of the table slide open and the most beautiful man walks through them.

All thoughts leave my head as his dark gaze locks with mine and I find myself unable to breathe.

When he smiles, my heart stutters.

Time passes slowly and everything quiets around me, then he finally tears his gaze away from mine and releases me from that intense hold to look at the other diners.

And I can finally pull in a breath.

I drop my head and focus on my hands again, folded in my lap and squeezed together tightly.

If this is the chef, I can probably manage sticking around.

My lips try to break into a wild grin, but I roll them together and maintain my cool because I am a grown ass woman and I donotget all flustered and giggly over a hot man.

Especially one who’s got to be half my age.

I lift my head slowly and peek up at him. Yes, definitely too young. Butgood griefis he gorgeous.

And you know what? I canlook. There’s certainly no harm in that. Judging by the silence surrounding me, I’m not the only one struck dumb by this man’s presence.

“Welcome to the inaugural Chef’s Table Dining Experience,” the young chef begins. “I am Chef Marco Santiago and I am honored to share my creations with you tonight.”

Good grief, the way he rolls that R in his name.

Lord, help me.

His gaze continues to meet mine, over and over, lingering longer than it should every single time. Not so long that anyone else seems to notice—I hope—but long enough to make my cheeks heat.

By the time he begins to explain what we can expect from the evening, I’m heated up and fanning myself with my napkin eve though the air conditioning is very clearly cranked up in here.

If I had some wine in my glass, I’d blame the alcohol.

A quick glance around, and I’m not the only one who looks a little warm. God bless that poor couple on the end, who apparently forgot sunscreen today.

The chef disappears again, leaving me with yet another lingering stare. In his absence, servers come around to fill wine glasses and deliver baskets full of assorted breads, and chips made from both flour and corn tortillas.

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