Page 7 of Say Yes to the Chef

Marco

Just before midnight, I stroll down to the beach, bare feet sinking into the sand. My black chef’s pants are rolled at the ankles and I ditched my chef’s coat with my shoes, both tucked beneath a bush near the end of the walkway. To anyone passing by, I’m just a regular guy in a t-shirt and pants, going for a stroll in the middle of the night. Nothing to see here.

The resort is quiet, save for the heady beat of bass coming from the lounge. There’s no one on the beach. A blessing. No one to catch me doing something I shouldn’t be, risking it all for one night with a stranger.

My heart thuds an unsteady rhythm against my ribs, mocking me with my nervousness.

I’ve questioned myself all night. Questioned the ludicrous note I tucked into her napkin.

I don’t even know what I was thinking. This isn’t middle school.

Meet me on the beach at midnight.

There’s only one logical explanation: I’m overwhelmed and have quite possibly lost my damn mind.

Or I’m a moron.

Either way, what the fuck am I doing?

Why would I think she’d agree to this little rendezvous? That she’d be down for a one-night stand with someone she’s never even spoken to?

She’s tasted my most cherished recipes, which is a level of intimacy in and of itself, but so have twelve other people.

Running my hands down my face, I groan and shake my head.Idiot.

Just because she checked in alone, doesn’t mean sheisalone. When I scanned the list of names for tonight’s dinner guests, theMrs. in her name should have set off an alarm in my brain, and yet I completely ignored it.

She probably has some rich asshole’s ring on her finger, and she’s waiting for him to arrive and join her in their fancy suite for their fancy vacation I could never afford.

I’m a damn good chef, but I’ll never be wealthy. Not like these people. Too much of my income goes back home to the States to support my mom and my two younger siblings.

What was I thinkingsneaking that stupid note into her napkin? What if it had accidentally ended up in the hands of one of the married women?

The married women seated beside their husbands… that would have gone over well.

JesusfuckingChrist.

With my eyes on the horizon, I shake my head. I can’t even bring myself to turn toward her room. It’s directly behind me, just a few yards away, but a quick glance as I passed by moments ago showed me her lights were off, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to look again since.

Lights off are a sign–and not a promising one. Definitely not an invitation.

Unlike my stupid note.

“Christ,” I say under my breath. “You’re an idiot.”

Someone clears their throat behind me and I spin to find Mrs. Rhone just a few feet away. She’s even more beautiful bathed in moonlight.

Her open shirt blows in the breeze, the wind kicking it up and away from her frame to give me an eyeful of what I knew hid beneath her dresses. Full, teardrop breasts and a waist that dips in at the center before flowing out into soft, luscious hips. Thick thighs, bare feet. The soft swell of her belly just above her bikini bottoms begs to be kissed, licked…

My hands twitch at my sides, but I can’t reach for her, not yet.

Instead, I take my time appreciating her body in the glow of the moonlight.

It pleases me tremendously that she doesn’t hide from my blatant devouring of her, doesn’t cower from the heat of my gaze.

No, she stands taller.

Her shirt falls off one shoulder, exposing more of her bronzed skin, but she doesn’t move to fix it. She’s secure. Self-possessed. That sexy fearlessness that only comes with age and is the reason I find myself drawn to older women time and time again. That delicious fucking confidence they have. Theknowing.

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