I shake my head, heart thudding. “Nope.”
“Come on, baby chef. He’s literally cooking. It’s fate. He’s hot, you’re hot, and I swear I saw sparks fly.”
I laugh, but it comes out too light, too fluttery.
“Besides,” she adds, smirking, “you’ve been back, what, an hour? Might as well start this homecoming off with a bang.”
I roll my eyes but glance back toward the booth. He’s still there, moving with a kind of effortless ease, flipping, seasoning, plating. He’s focused, composed, and completely unaware of the chaos he’s stirring up inside me.
At least I think he’s unaware.
Because before I look away, he glances up again.
And smirks.
Not wide. Not cocky. Just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. A secret smile like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
I swallow hard.
Oh, no.
This man is trouble.
And I might be stupid enough to walk straight into it.
Maya grabs my cider before I can argue and gives me a little shove. “Go. I’ll be right here pretending not to eavesdrop.”
I shoot her a glare over my shoulder, but my feet are already moving. Drawn. Compelled. Totally against my better judgment.
The closer I get, the more gorgeous he becomes. Up close, he’s all sharp jawline and rough edges. Tattoos snake down one arm, some intricate black and gray piece I want to stare at for hours, and there’s a tiny scar on his bottom lip that makes my stomach do a slow, traitorous somersault.
He’s plating a taco. Something spicy, judging by the red salsa and diced jalapeños. I open my mouth, trying to think of something clever or cool or even just coherent to say.
Nothing comes out.
He lifts his head, meets my eyes again, and waits.
Just waits.
Finally, he speaks. “You sing real pretty.”
His voice is deep and gravelly and low enough to vibrate straight through me. It shouldn’t be legal for a voice to sound like that. It’s rough velvet, smoke, and honey.
“I, uh, thanks.” Nailed it. Very smooth. Josie Dawson, queen of charm.
He nods once, eyes flicking to my mouth like he’s filing something away. Then he holds out the paper plate with the taco. “Try this.”
I blink. “You’re giving out free food?”
“Nope.” His mouth twitches. “Only to girls who sing like they mean it.”
I take the plate hesitantly, still eyeing him. Our fingers brush for the briefest second, and it’s ridiculous,ridiculous, how even that small touch is a jolt.
I glance at the taco, then back at him. “What is it?”
“Smoked pork belly. Pickled slaw. Peach habanero glaze.”
“That’s fancy.” I laugh, and he rewards me with a smile. Barely there, but it curls slow and wicked, like he’s been holding it back.
