Until Selene, that is.

She stood near me, smelling like a summer meadow. In an instant, I realized I had become the worst cliché ever. I literally wanted to make my best pastries for her... or just take her to the back of the kitchen and kiss her until she'd be breathless.

And crave for more.

We were in the midst of rush hour, though, so I needed someone to take over for me. Orders were flying in. The air was filled with the sweet-savory-umami marriage of dishes.

"Give me a minute," I said to Aiden and Selene. I wasn't about to let him have more alone time with her. Pity Niall had to visit one of our patrons today. He had no idea what he was missing out on.

I turned to Pierre, my second-in-command. "Hold down the fort while I catch up with these two, P. You got this," I said, patting his back. "And try not to let our guests overdose on sodium."

Pierre was a direct import from France, and while he was a brilliant chef, his fingers loved to be generous with the salt. I didn't mind it—but some of our guests did, and Pierre usually loved getting into trouble. In other words, he refused to admit less salt was better for the heart.

"Aye, these Americans," he grumbled, taking over my pan and tossing julienned scallions before adding a pinch of sugar to caramelize them.

"They make big Instagram posts about Heart Attack Grill and stuff themselves with cheese and put sweet sauces on everything savory. But I put some sea salt and no, they want to light my chef's hat on fire!Comment est-ce juste?"

"No, it's not fair at all," I responded hurriedly. "You're the best we have, and we all know it. Come on, now, don't burn my kitchen with that temper!"

I left him chuckling unwillingly and took Selene and Aiden aside, where we chefs would usually hang out between hectic services with bottles of cold pop. I did not like drinking on duty, but we also kept beer in case we'd had a really tough day and needed to kick back after the last service.

"So, Selene, we all know you're doing the Netflix show. I can't tell you how proud I am that a Southie's painting all of America red!"

Selene smiled, and it was as if her whole face became illuminated. For a second, I thought I could drown in those baby-blue eyes. Heat coursed through me as I pictured her in this very kitchen after hours, pushed against a wall as I touched her.

She had a curvy figure, and she knew how to carry it. I loved that.

Her reddish-gold hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders, and the only makeup on her face was liner and gloss. It should have been criminal to be this gorgeous, but hey, I'd give her a free pass.

My thoughts were spinning like a blender on high, churning up a chemical concoction of desire and jittery nerves.

"Look at you boys," she said, leaning against a counter, her expression devilishly innocent. "It's as if y'all have forgotten that you made my life in school hell!"

My heart began pounding like Pierre's mallet when he was tenderizing a stubborn piece of meat and blabbering about not being allowed to season it enough.

"You should completely blame Aiden for that," I replied quickly, ignoring the glare I got from him. Hell, I followed his commands back in school, and I refused to take the proverbial fall for that now.

Actually, looking back, all of us had the hots for Selene, even back then. She had no fucking idea how beautiful she became post-puberty.

And there we were, a bunch of gangly boys dealing with acne breakouts, oily skin, and a sudden itch between our damned thighs.

She was the goddess in a sea of plebians, and we hated the kind of pull we felt toward her. Aiden's response was to treat her like she was a skipping stone.

She replied with an easy laugh. "It's okay. Honestly, considering what the media has put me through the last couple of years, you guys gave me the unintentional training I needed to survive."

I had heard morsels of Selene's story from Ben and gleaned the rest from online platforms and her interviews.

She applied for a scholarship to attend Cordon Bleu's Paris institution. Ben was sure she'd make it, and he was right. From what I knew, she finished her training there and went on to work in some of the top kitchens across Europe before flying back to her homeland.

In between, she was a food writer forEpicurean Eats, one of my favorite culinary magazines of all time.

This work of art featured articles from kitchen notables like Marco Pierre White, Gary Mehigan, Gordon Ramsay, and a few rare pieces from Anthony Bourdain before things went south.

I loved it because of its raw exposés and its depiction of the humanness of kitchen workers, particularly chefs.

That was what Selene brought to the table. I smiled as I quoted one of her articles straight to her. "Imagine, if you will, a bustling kitchen. It's akin to a circus, with pots and pans flying through the air. Chefs are like acrobats performing a culinary juggling act. On the other end of the kitchen, the tables are pristine and the lighting is artistically poised to whet your palate. You see the carefully crafted dishes and taste the results of the ordered chaos that flourishes inside. Chefs are, after all, superheroes, attempting to bridge the discord between salt and sugar and leave you with just the perfect balance of both."

"I've never had someone quote my writing back to me!" Selene's reply was almost child-like in its innocent glee. "It makes me feel like a total celebrity."