Page 4 of Back in the Texan's Bed
But apparently, she hadn’t been quick or stealthy enough. A smirk curled the other woman’s mouth.
“Part of the job, Charlotte,” she reminded her.
“I know, I know,” Charlotte muttered, unsnapping her baggy white executive chef coat and shrugging out of it, revealing the large T-shirt underneath. She strode over to the hooks near the door that led out of the glass-enclosed kitchen and removed her more formal and fitted turquoise chef coat with three-quarter-length sleeves, black piping and fabric-covered buttons. “It’s not that I don’t like going tableside,” she grumbled, slipping into the coat and quickly fastening it over her chest. “I’d just much rather be cooking. I always feel like I’m on display.”
“Well, get used to it. You’re not naive enough to not know that these days it’s as much about the chef as the food. That face and pinup body is an asset along with your truffle mac ’n’ cheese.” Faith’s matter-of-fact tone stole a bit of the wind out of Charlotte’s imminent tirade about the unfairness of her appearance being a factor at all. Mostly because, as unreasonable as it might be, Faith was correct.
It still annoyed her, though.
“Thank you for those words, oh, wise one,” Charlotte drawled. Then, turning to Carlie, she smiled. “Lead the way.”
As they exited the kitchen, Charlotte couldn’t help surveying the restaurant, where she spent nearly as much time at as the home she rented for her and Ben. A sister site to The Bellamy’s Glass House restaurant, Sheen was made entirely out of glass. This evening, the low lighting complemented rather than competed with the setting sun’s rays that poured through the ceiling-to-floor windows, bathing the tables and patrons in its orange-and-red glow.
Beautiful.
And one day, hopefully, hers. Well, partly.
Carlie led her through the restaurant toward the far corner that boasted one of the best tables because of its gorgeous view of Royal. The table, which sat on a small dais, overlooked the entire restaurant. Which meant one thing—VIP guest.
Charlotte fixed a polite smile to her face as she neared the table. Five minutes, max, then she had to return to—
Oh, God.
Frigid fingers of shock crackled through her veins, and her feet stuttered to a stop. Startled stares swept over her like ants marching over a picnic blanket, prickling her skin. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t jerk her gaze away from a pair of icy blue eyes.
Her heart attempted to drill a hole through her rib cage, each beat pumping pain and fear to every artery and organ. Pain, fear and something so much more complicated.
Pain, because for the first time in three years she stared into the beautiful, cold face of the man she’d once loved. A man who had been willing to take her body but not her heart.
The convoluted emotion was a noxious mixture of anger, resentment and—Jesus, she hated herself for this—a residue of the delight that just a glimpse of him used to stir within her.
And fear... Damn, thefear, because she wasn’t just coming face-to-face with Russell Edmond Jr., the man who’d broken her heart.
She was coming face-to-face with her son’s father.
A son he had no idea existed.
Two
Fuck no.
Ross stared at a ghost from his past.
A ghost that, as much as he’d tried to banish with time, work and other women—sometimes alcohol—he’d failed to exorcise.
Charlotte Jarrett.
Former head chef at his family’s ranch. Ex-lover. The woman who’d walked away uncaring of the damage she’d left behind.
Another woman who’d abandoned him without a backward glance.
Ice coated his skin, sinking deeper, seeming to freeze the very marrow of his bones.
He hated seeing her again. Hated that she hadn’t changed. Hated that her tall, graceful frame still boasted the same gorgeous, deadly curves that his hands could trace from muscle memory. That she remained as beautiful as ever—silken, hickory-brown skin, oval-shaped eyes framed by a thick fringe of dark lashes, regal cheekbones with slightly hollowed cheeks, an elegantly sloped nose and...
He transferred his hands to his thighs so the white tablecloth hid his clenched fists.
And a mouth that should be slapped with an indecency citation. Those plush lips were so flagrantly sensual he dared any man to glance at them and not imagine them dragging him willingly to the edge of ecstasy. An edge he’d hovered and plummeted over many times with her...
