Page 33 of Sinfully Shameless Chef

This isn’t the time in my life to get involved with anyone—emotionally or physically—and even if I were to, Jameson would be the last one on the list of potential suitors.

He takes a step back from the stove and shakes his head. “I didn’t realize you were doing top-secret shit over here.”

I scowl at him and stir the chili. “It’s not top secret. Far from it.”

Suck it up, Iz. Let him have a taste and tell him to move on back to his place.

One taste won’t hurt anything.

And it might be enough to get him to hightail it out of here in search of a beer or something to tame his palate with as hot as I made this.

Wait…

I fight the sinister smile threatening to spread across my lips. I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. Most people can’t handle this kind of heat. Grams’ original recipe is hot enough, but when I add my “extras” to it, it becomes almost like napalm. Maybe Jameson will be one of those pussies who can’t deal. If I’m lucky and he’s not, it could throw off his whole palate for days.

It may be tempting fate to try for a third “win” today, but something makes me fill the spoon and bring it up for him. Something that wants to top the “prime chef” just one more time.

* * *

JAMESON

Something mischievous twinkles in Isabella’s emerald eyes. Something completely foreign. Typically, the only thing I see there is anger and annoyance. But this look…this one excites me as much as it worries me she might be up to something.

What are you doing, clever girl?

I wouldn’t put it past her to try to pull one over on me again after what she already did. Truth is, I had hoped to catch her off guard and perhaps secure a little payback myself.

When I came in here today, I thought our confrontation was going to go a lot differently. Because I was pissed. The entire drive, all I could think about was what a huge moron I must have looked like when I was sitting there staring at that menu on camera—bright lights shining on me, Tim and Becky chuckling at my expense.

I imagined all the potential customers laughing at me and wondering what a shit-show I must be running if I can’t even handle a menu. All the people who will forever be giggling about “octopussy salad” every time my name is mentioned for the rest of my fucking life.

Yet, the moment I laid eyes on her standing at the range—the one I want so badly, the one she refuses to sell me—her hips swinging to the beat of the music blasting from the radio, something a lot different than anger took hold.

It was pride.

I was fucking proud of her for finding a way to get back at me.

Not that I think anything I did was that bad or underhanded—just the cost of business—but she’s standing on her own two feet, refusing my money I know she needs, and not just not budging but actively fighting back.

It wasn’t what I expected from the perky, tiny blonde. Though, perhaps I underestimated her. The soaked woman who stormed into my empty restaurant space weeks ago to let her disdain for me known is far different from the one standing before me now, holding out a spoon. This one has something devious in her eyes and a lot more spunk in her after what she did to me.

She flashes me a grin and nods to what looks like chili. “Try some. My grandmother’s chili recipe.”

Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a grin, and I hold her gaze while I lean forward and wrap my mouth around the spoon.

Fuck.

Almost instantly, the fruity heat of what can only be habanero peppers hits my tongue…and burns violently across my palate.

I fight the urge to cough against the heat, and instead, swallow again and take a second to try to savor the other flavors present beneath the searing fire of the pepper.

And boy, are they there.

The chili is hot—there’s no denying that—but it’s also layered with depth of flavor I haven’t ever experienced in a dish like this before. It’s truly incredible. Her grandmother was an excellent cook.

Izzy watches me expectantly, spoon clutched tightly in her fist.

She thought she was going to get me with this shit.

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