Page 2 of Chef's Kiss

But as I keep my eyes focused on Christian, it’s clear the only thing up right now, is the bulge in his trousers. I’m sure Alexa gets that response from all the guys…but he hasn’t looked at or acknowledged her yet. He must be playing hard to get. Fight fire with fire. Well played.

Suddenly I breathe out hard, my body reminding me just how long I’ve been holding my breath, but when I breathe back in through my nose I get a tremendous head rush from the woodsy smell of Christain’s cologne. I can’t help myself, closing my eyes and taking a long, deep inhale. Slowly, my eyes flutter open only to see the mysterious depths of Christian’s coffee-colored eyes still locked on me.

He’s gorgeous, but not in the traditional sense. He looks like he’d be more at home in the forest wrestling bears, than making mouth watering desserts on live TV.

His eyes trickle down, across my breasts and then back up to my face. “Charlotte. I had the best BBQ of my life there,” he says, as if actually saying barbecue takes up too much of his precious time. I can’t believe I even heard someone say the word like that, and I almost mistake it for what I’m used to hearing. BBW.

To be honest, I’m kinda tired of hearing it. I definitely wouldn’t call myself ugly, especially considering I don’t think there should be a standard by which people judge each other based on such superficial things as appearance. It’s just that, well, I’m not much of a looker, or anything for that matter. When I look in the mirror I see average in all ways, and that’s on a good day. Average height. Average hair. Average face. Okay, maybe a little baby fat around my chin and jawline that I could part with, and getting a bit plump due to all the stress, but average. And quiet.

I took this job because the description said I didn’t have to interact with people, but suddenly my mouth feels like it’s Pandora’s box and he just opened it.

“I love barbeque. A smoked brisket is one of my favorite foods, especially with Newman’s own sauce on top. If you know how to make that I’m your new best friend,” I blurt out. And then it hits me…I’m questioning a master chef, or whatever the proper term is, and his ability to cook? And apparently he’s a frequent customer around here.

“Paul’s a great guy, but he should have stuck to making movies and racing cars. I make an Eastern North Carolina Vinegar Sauce that would absolutely melt your tastebuds, Charlotte,” he says, and hearing my name roll off his lips is like an orchestra playing a crescendo while Pavarotti belts out a high note. It’s earth shattering, which is exactly what’s happening to my panties right now. They feel like they’re about to explode, and I make a mental note to bring in an extra pair tomorrow if he’s going to be dropping by again. “And with a name like Charlotte, how can you not try my sauce that originates in the Carolinas?”

I freeze up. Have I absolutely lost my mind or is Christian offering me a bottle of his sauce? Oh yeah, Mr. Sexy Chef…I want your sauce alright. That sauce!

I clear my throat, trying to stay level-headed. Despite how much his eyes remind me of black coffee, and despite how I could have sworn I saw steam rising off them as his eyes raked across my chest, guys like him do not go for girls like me.

I’m not bitter about it. I’m not angry for it. It’s just a fact of life, just like my love for Starbucks, although my bank balance won’t be allowing for anything from there anytime soon.

“Yeah, sure. If you bring a bottle by I’ll be sure to give it a try,” I say, trying to fit into the rarified air of the cool kid’s club I suddenly find myself in.

One of his eyebrows shoots up as his hand finds the smooth, polished birch counter by the register. And then he smirks at me.

It’s like the moment the demolition expert pushes the button and one of those giant skyscrapers comes crashing down. I feel my knees go weak and beyond light headed. I lean sideways, thanking my lucky stars that my hand finds a steel shelf beam versus my face finding the floor.

“Do you think I’m trying to promote my products here?” he asks, his finger pointing overhead. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“No marketing allowed,” Alexa states as if she’s the most bored woman on the planet, apparently reading the sign overhead. “But we do take cash, Visa, American Express, and the Apple Pay you usually use immediately before you turn and go just like every other time you’ve ever been in here. I think this visit is longer than all the other ones in the last three years combined. Now, how do you wanna pay so we can go clean up the coffee which is running all up and down the floor right now?”

---