Page 9 of Sawyer
“Tell me what’s going on in your head right now.”
She watched his hand lift as if he were going to cup her shoulder. Her breath stopped. He exhaled sharply. She watched his hand lower and told herself to get a grip.
“Tackling all this pressure and killing it day after day is what you do to get a star.”
“You’re already a star in my book, Madison.”
Her insides exploded with that weird emotion she’d been deluged with after getting her degree atLe Cordon Bleu.She felt as shiny as her favorite cleaver. God, she wanted to grab him to her and hold on tight.
Just for one damn minute.
“You’re getting as mushy as Thea.” She forced herself to continue, because he deserved honesty as her best friend. “I’m fine. Really. I know you worry about things, and that comes with the territory for me, but I’m locked. The staff is?—”
“You don’t have to tell me something I know,” he only said, his mouth tipping up to the right in that sexy way that was for her and her alone. “Maybe I just wanted to share this moment with you.”
God, this honesty, this vulnerability was going to kill her. What was she supposed to say?
“I’m glad you did,” she said after a moment. “You’ve worked hard too—I wish that review could have highlightedthat.”
He swallowed thickly. “Thank you, but it was mypleasure. It’s been a long, hard road here, but we’re here. At the top. Now we keep rising. Besides, I don’t think Gustave wanted to hear about all of the duck with cherries samples you stuck in my mouth until you finally figured out what was missing. Although maybe he wouldn’t be surprised since he raved about that dish. You knew it would stand out once you got it right.”
“Sometimes you know things in your gut.” He’d helped her figure out what was missing, and that kind of partnership was both scary and tantalizing. “Besides, all those samples filled your belly. You know you miss those days.”
He leaned back against the wall, all six-foot-four inches of solid male. “I do. For more reasons than the food. Even when you thrust tarragon under my nose.”
“Youdid that.”
“No, I put it in your hand.” They shared another dangerous smile filled with memories and warmth. “I’m happy as hell, Mad. I wanted to make sure you were too.”
The nickname was his pet one for her in moments like this where they were too friendly. She could feel his urge to reach for her again.
Hell, they were like rope that had gotten wet. Even her cleaver couldn’t sever their connection. Not that she wanted to. Which had her doing this dangerous dance—the one where she watched him watch her with coiled desire in his intense blue eyes, and they pretended they were only friends.
“You go. I’ll party with everyone later.” She made herself give him a friendly pat on his face like Brooke did to the boys. “I need to tell the staff about the review—which they probably already read—and get to my dinner prep.”
“Don’t let me keep you, then.” He arched his brow, like he knew very well what that friendly pat had meant and wasn’t biting the hook.
Fine. She had a kitchen to run.
When she arrived, the phone was ringing nonstop whileher staff was clustered around the open back door. The smell ofboeuf bourguignonand chicken roasting with fennel alongside pork with a rhubarb glaze greeted her nose, assuring her the prep was in order, at least. She marched to the door, and perhaps it was the stomping of her black combat boots as much as the jangle of Nanine’s magical chandelier that announced her presence, but they separated like grapeseed oil and lemon juice in broken mayonnaise.
“What is everyone doing over here?”
She noticed the young woman with red hair talking to her sous chef, Fabian. Brooke would approve of the designer labels she was wearing, although her long lime green coat and purple leather gloves screamed South Beach more than Paris.
“This woman would like to speak with Dr. Jackson,” Fabian told her in French.
Here we go.She was glad for Sawyer, but this was what she’d been warning Kyle about.
The woman strode forward, a professional smile in place. “Hi, I’m Phoebe Anderson.” Her switch to English was as interesting as the slight British cast of her accent. “I own a gallery here in Paris. I read the article inLe Mondetoday. I was hoping I could sneak in and see the paintings by Dr. Jackson.”
“We have had a number of calls already, Chef, with people wanting to know if they can come by the restaurant and view the artwork,” Fabian informed her. “The phone has been incessant?—”
“I get the picture.” Madison had to bite back her annoyance. Great that they wanted to see Sawyer’s paintings, but she had a kitchen to run. “Ms. Anderson, I appreciate your interest, but Nanine’s is a restaurant, not a museum. If you give me your card, I’ll pass it along to Dr. Jackson.”
Madison had to give the woman credit. Her smile didn’t slip as she dug into her matching purple purse and fished out a card. Brooke would know whether this person was the realdeal or an opportunist. She and Axel could run point on that part of Operation Sawyer.
“Thank you for giving it to him. Are you Chef Garcia?”
