Page 13 of Sinfully Shameless Chef

Another one of Grams’ classic sayings is true: never trust a skinny chef. I don’t trust Jameson, and he’s more than skinny—he's absolutely ripped. Any time the man doesn't spend in the kitchen, he must spend in the gym. Either that or he’s been blessed with some sort of nuclear metabolism women would kill for.

It's unfair, really. I eat a piece of bread or a grain of rice and I gain five pounds. I constantly have to watch what I eat or drink and limit my diet. Just another inconvenience my doctor says is necessary to ensure I remain healthy for as long as possible.

So damn unfair.

Thinking about that only heats my blood more. I scowl at him and cross my arms over my chest.

One of his dark eyebrows rises above the top of the shades. “Good morning, Isabella.”

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

He holds up his hands innocently, the move shifting his hard pecs in a way that makes me squirm. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

I point to the lounge chair. “This. This fucking chair. Why is it here?”

“I thought that would be obvious.” He shrugs. “I'm sunbathing.”

Sunbathing? The nerve of this guy!

I motion toward the blue sky. “It's six in the morning.”

He somehow manages to keep a completely neutral expression despite the fact that I’m about to stroke out. “What's your point?”

I growl at him and clench my fists at my side. “This isn’t the time to sunbathe. Nor is this the place to do it.”

Jameson angles his head down to look at me over the top of his glasses, his bourbon eyes dancing with humor. “I beg to differ. I like the early morning sun when the ultraviolet rays aren’t as harsh, and this is the perfect spot to do it because with all these buildings”—he motions toward the apartments that line the street around us—“this is the only spot around to get sunlight for longer than half an hour.”

I stomp my foot and take another step closer. “Move the damn chair so I can park.”

“Oh?” He feigns innocence and places a hand over his heart. “You wanted to park here?”

“Yes.” I motion to my car blocking any traffic that might come down the street. Thankfully, this early, there isn’t much. “I would.”

“Well, that's a rather unfortunate coincidence that it's my sunbathing spot, isn't it?”

I groan and throw up my hands. “You’re a real piece of work, Fury.”

He grins at me and waggles his eyebrows. “Thank you for noticing.”

“Jesus Christ, who taught you your manners? I'd like to have a little chat with them to tell them what an asshole you are.”

His jaw drops, and he presses the same hand over his heart again in mock offense. “Ouch. I'm sure if my mother were alive, she’d be deeply offended by that statement.”

“If my mother were alive…”

Shit. Now I feel like an asshole.

I suck in a deep breath of the cleanish early morning air and try to calm my racing heart and flaring temper. Getting so worked up isn’t healthy. And hearing he lost his mom like I did allows the tiniest hint of regret to creep into my heart. “I'm sorry I said that.”

He shakes his head and shifts up until he’s sitting, the movement of his perfectly toned muscles making my mouth water. “No, you're not. You meant it.”

Well, if he's going to give me an out…

“Of course, I meant it. You're doing this on purpose to make my life difficult.”

“Why would I do that?” He motions toward our buildings and the door to his side. “My soon-to-be restaurant is right there. This is a logical place to sunbathe so I can catch my rays and get right to work.” He offers me an almost kind smile—one I might actually believe if I had never interacted with him before. “I'm sorry it conflicts with your parking situation, but maybe you’ll just have to get here earlier next time.”

The confident smirk he gives me signifies I'm not going to get anywhere with him.

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