Page 8 of Bringing Home the Bacon
It felt fantastic.
But now I’m standing here melting on the sidewalk in the late New York City summer sun and doubting all my decisions. One by one, his fellow contestants exit through the big metal door. Still no sign of the man they call Bacon. A few of the chefs sign autographs before hopping into the Town Cars. Wow. My grandmother loves this show, but I didn’t know it was that big of a deal. Seems it’s way more popular than I realized.
Ten more minutes pass and now I’m the only one left standing here other than a security guard and the random New Yorkers hurrying past. Clearly, he’s not coming. He must have assumed I was a crazed fan—do cooking show contestants have crazed fans?—and slipped out a side exit to avoid me.
Message received, fella.
If I hurry, maybe I can catch up with the rest of the teachers for lunch and shopping. I turn and start heading down Fifty-seventh Street, pulling out my phone to text my coworkers.
“Leaving so soon?” a deep male voice calls out from behind me.
It’s him.
I halt in place, but I don’t turn around just yet.
“Places to go, people to see. You know how it is,” I sass over my shoulder. The energy this man brings out of me is something else.
“Huh. Your sign implied you wanted to see me,” he says. His voice oozes confidence and calm.
I’m still facing away from him. “I did, but you kept me waiting, so I’m not sure I’m interested anymore. Don’t you know it’s rude to keep a girl waiting?”
“Hmm. Maybe you’ll let me make it up to you, then.” His voice is much closer now.
He’s right behind me.
I finally turn, and my breath catches at the sight of him. The chef's coat and hat are gone. He’s now wearing a light blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and tan pants that hug him in all the right places.
He chuckles. “Did you just check me out?”
“So what if I did?” I say and boldly take a step closer to him. “Surely, you checked me out too.”
“Of course I did, but I made sure I did that before you turned around.”
“Well, that’s not fair,” I complain. “I wasn’t afforded that same opportunity to peruse the merchandise.”
Merchandise? Did I just call this man merchandise?
He must not know what to make of me because he just stands there, eyes narrowed and looking so damn sexy.
“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, right?” I say and instantly regret it. My gran always says that phrase. I’m not sure it even makes sense in this context, and it’s certainly not sexy.
He surprises me when he says, “By all means, lady… peruse.” He pivots away from me and strikes a pose accentuating his rear end.
He’s so funny. Part of me wants to crack up, though the larger part of me is fully committed to this role-play we seem to be doing. This is amazing. I said I wanted to be someone else for one day, and that’s exactly what’s happening. I have no idea who I am right now, and it’s exhilarating!
“I’m perusing the hell outta you, stud.” His broad back, trim waist, and taut butt are all sorts of sexy.
“Like what you see?” he says, still facing away from me.
I realize this is the first time I’ve ever set my sights on a guy and actively pursued him. Up until now, I’ve been so passive in my dating life. Well, not today. Today, I’m a woman who goes after what she wants.
I close the distance between us and wrap my arms confidently around his waist, you know, like I do this sort of thing every day.
“Mmm,” I hum. “Very much.”
I press my breasts to his muscular back. He sucks in a breath. When he places a warm hand on top of mine and caresses my knuckles with a calloused thumb, it sends a shiver over my skin even though it must be nearly ninety degrees out here.
I tighten my hold on him, my hands longing to slip inside his shirt to run down the delicious abs he clearly has hiding under there.
