Page 13 of Whisking It All

DiceDiceBaby: Bikini cut?

She laughed. DDB was nothing if not a stickler for details.

WhiskyBusiness: Thong.

DiceDiceBaby: Go with the red.

Chapter 5

Jamie knew he could be a grumpy asshole—his brother Daemon, the grumpiest of assholes, delighted in telling him so— but he didn’t generally consider himself an angry person. That was before he arrived at his restaurant to find the one-night stand who had run out on him before sun-up in his kitchen.

A kitchen was a chef’s castle, or temple, or whatever the fuck meant it was a sacred goddamn place. His crew knew better than to so much as rearrange the pot rack, which is why he could not figure out how the hell Tessa had come to be there, unaccompanied and without his knowledge, two days after she’d disappeared while he was sleeping.

When he pushed through the doors from the darkened dining room, he found her blasting some God-awful pop music and singing off-key into one of his wooden spoons, her back to him as she danced in front of the gas range. He was momentarily distracted by the way she moved to the music, her full ass almost hypnotic as she shimmied her hips in jeans that looked practically painted on. His cock kicked behind the placket of his pants. She was all curves and softness, and his body remembered how it had felt to lose himself in that softness less than forty-eight hours before.

His eye caught the telltale glint of edible glitter on the workstation and suddenly no amount of perfect ass shaking could distract him from the ways in which she had sullied his kitchen, even if he also wanted to drop to his knees and bury his face between her thighs until she swore not to walk out on him again. Was it possible to want to berate someone and also be overwhelmingly relieved to see them? He wanted to shake her until she understood how fucked up it was to leave without saying a goddamn word and then beg her not to do it again. The emotional whiplash was exhilarating and exhausting.

Still bleating into the wooden spoon and oblivious to his presence, Tessa grabbed a bottle of rum from the workstation—the good stuff that he used for creating rum caramel sauce for bread puddings—and poured a heavy splash into the skillet in front of her. And now she’s wasting my best rum. She tilted the pan until the alcohol caught on the flames from the burner, a sudden pillar of fire erupting from the pan as she swirled the contents with a practiced motion of her wrist.

Jamie swallowed the rebuke he’d been prepared to bark in her direction, instead silently leaning against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her cook. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, but she’d clearly taken the time to be sure each strand was tucked away. She’d foregone a chef’s coat in favor of her street clothes—tight jeans and a V-neck shirt covered in a cherry print—but the towel over her shoulder had only the barest hint of soiling where she’d wiped her fingers as she worked. A professional knife roll sat on the workstation next to the offending vial of edible glitter.

She belonged in the kitchen.

But why the hell was she in his? And how had she even found him?

She gave the pan another shake, then set it down. She spun around, shimmying and singing the whole time. As her eyes snagged on Jamie, she dropped the spoon, the wood clattering to the floor.

“Holy shit!” she shouted, pressing a hand to her chest. She grabbed the remote for the stereo system from the counter beside her and switched off the music, the silence settling around them. “What are you doing here?”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “This is my restaurant. What are you doing here?”

Her face paled and she narrowed her eyes at him like she was trying to make out a fuzzy image in an old photograph. “You’re Jameson Chase?”

She used his full name, like they were at the goddamn DMV, like he hadn’t been inside her the night before last.

“Most people call me Jamie. Or Chef. Thought you’d remember that. You certainly screamed it loud enough the other night.”

She retrieved the spoon from the floor and tossed it into the sink. Her hands rested on her hips, her chin tilting up defiantly and her blue eyes blazing. “Not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

He pushed off from the doorway, stalking towards her. Yes, he was angry with her, and yes, he wanted to know why she was there, how she had found him, but he wanted to taste her again more. “Maybe I should remind you then.”

She took a step away, her eyes going wide, and he froze. What the fuck is that about?

“What are you doing here, Tessa?” he ground out, her reaction to him setting his nerves on edge. He wanted her, but he wasn’t about to make a move on someone who wasn’t into it. What changed?

“I would think it’s obvious,” she said, tilting her head towards the pan on the stove. Her eyes were too wide, darting all over the kitchen, from the door to him, like she’d seen a ghost.

“I’ve never known someone to break and enter just to fix themselves a snack,” he said.

“I have permission to be here.”

“Not from me. How’d you find me?” When she continued to stare at him blankly, he tried again. “Why bother tracking me down, after you took off without even saying goodbye?”

She had the good graces to look embarrassed, pink spreading up her neck and into her cheeks. “I didn’t track you down.”

“No? Looks that way from where I’m standing.”

He meandered through the workstations in a wide loop to assess the damage she’d done and give himself time to process the fact that she was in his kitchen, to put some distance between them while she was doing the whole deer-in-the-headlights thing. He trailed his finger along the edge of the counter, affecting a stance that was far more casual than he felt, but he was pleased when his finger came away clean. She worked neatly, edible glitter aside.

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