“I look like that picture, no?”
“Your hair color.”
Her dark locks were like a rich béarnaise sauce—not in hue, but an accompaniment to whatever delicious treat was beneath. In this case, it was her face, and, goddamn it, it was perfect.
“Your eye color.” Even more haunting and blue in person. “And the shape of your lips. But that photo, although a good one, barely captured how beautiful you are.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Beautifuldidn’t even dent her.
This woman was a masterpiece. Beyond anything I could create in the kitchen. Something that even the most experienced palate wouldn’t be able to define.
I was six foot three inches, and she came up to the bottom of my chest. Her dark hair was still wet, and a spattering of freckles was under her eyes and across her nose, like I’d tossed some cinnamon and it stuck. The poutiness of her lips and the blue that stared back at me were putting me in a fucking choke hold.
“I can’t tell if I should apologize for a shitty profile pic or sayyou’re welcome.” She smiled again, this time much larger.
And that, along with her statement, made me laugh. “You’re welcomeis far more appropriate.” I opened the door wider. “Come in.”
She didn’t move. “So, last time—and I’ve only done this once, a year ago, so don’t get any weird thoughts that I do this all the time—we didn’t exchange names. I guess when it’s oneand done, there’s no need to call each other anything. Do you have an opinion on that?”
“I have a lot of opinions. This, however, I’m indifferent about.”
“Well then, Whiskey35”—she held out her hand—“it’s nice to meet you.”
I shook her cold, delicate fingers. My hand was so large that it swallowed hers. “Nice to meet you, TheSkyIsn’tMyLimit.” I let out a huff of air. “I can’t call you that. It’s too long.”
“How about you call me … Sky?”
“That works.”
She didn’t pull her hand back. In fact, she stayed frozen in the hallway, her stare intensifying. “Why do you look familiar?”
Fuck.
I’d dealt with this since culinary school—when I was mentored by a famous chef, and he had a video crew following him around to document his life. I appeared so much in that documentary that once it aired, for a multitude of reasons, I began gaining attention. But that had been before the book deals and the cookware and the opening of our restaurant empire, which only catapulted my name and reputation even more.
I was no Beck Weston. He had it far worse than me. But it was bad enough that, for tonight, I didn’t want to be me. I didn’t want to talk about work or my life or anything I’d experienced. I wanted to be Whiskey35 and enjoy an evening with a woman I’d never met before—a night I was sure I would remember.
“This is LA,” I told her. “Everyone looks like someone.”
“True … but … I don’t know … there’s something about you that’s really, really familiar.”
“I’m sure you’ve seen a hundred dudes who look just likeme. Hell, maybe you’ve even met one of my siblings. I’ve got a few of those.”
“Possibly.”
I nodded toward the open doorway. “Are you going to come in?”
She released my hand, and as she was walking through the doorway, I pulled a small white ball from her hair.
The contact made her pause, and she laughed as I showed her what it was. “I wolfed down a sandwich during my drive here. That must be some of the bread.”
“I would have ordered you food.”
She stared at me for several seconds, the distance between us now slim, and that gave me a moment to feel her. To smell her. To get a sense of who she was. Even though Sky wasn’t touching me, her presence wrapped around me. It worked its way down my body. And it grew my hard-on, to the point where I needed to adjust myself.
She took several deep breaths before she said, “Thank you for that, but it’s not your responsibility to feed me.” She walked deeper into the suite and set her bag on one of the chairs. “And eating—at least food—isn’t why I’m here.”
