I glared at him but only for asecond because my attention was immediately diverted to the huge industrialkitchen that smelled like heaven and looked even cleaner. White subway tiles onall the walls made the gleaming stainless steel stand out in perfect lines andshiny surfaces.
A few employees in black coats andhats bustled around the kitchen, their hands busy with prep work and theirgazes focused on their tasks. My heart kicked against my breastbone, jealousand happy and dreamy all at once.
The huge glass-doored refrigeratorswere stocked with fresh vegetables and cheeses, meats and more. A huge pot ofbroth simmered on one of the cooktops and the dishwasher was already buzzingfrom the morning’s work.
My tiny truck kitchen could fitinside the walk-in cooler.
It hit me harder than it ever hadwhat I’d given up when I came home. At least when I’d been in Europe livinghand to mouth, I’d gotten to work in a kitchen. Even if I’d only been a peon inthe hierarchy of restaurant staff, I’d still gotten to be a part of theorganized chaos.
Nothing could compare to that. Noteven the privilege of owning my own business. There was nothing like runningaround during dinner service, chefs shouting orders and tickets flying throughthe window. There was nothing like the different smells that tangled togetheror tired hands after prepping for hours. There was nothing like sending plateafter plate of perfect food to a room full of diners that couldn’t comprehendthe amount of time, care and effort that went into each dish so they could havean experience instead of a meal.
Just when I thought I would burstfrom missing the rush so badly, my gaze fell on Killian. He hadn’t noticed meyet. His focus was wholly on the dish at his fingertips, plating it just rightso that the visual precision could change your life if you let it.
I stood next to the door, enjoying himin all his glory. He commanded the attention of everyone in the room just byhis presence, by the sheer strength of his dominating will. His fingers movedsteadily over the dish, never shaking, never questioning what he was doing. Heorchestrated the plate. Not the other way around.
My mouth went dry watching him. Myblood hummed beneath my skin. And every dormant part of me woke up and startedpaying attention. I decided I had never seen anything so sexy before, so fullymy fantasy in every way.
His forehead wrinkled inconcentration. His body bent over the plate as he moved it gracefully incircles deciding the perfect angle and position to add the sauce. He dipped aspoon into a tomato-based cream and slashed lines of it over lush stalks of asparagussitting on top of creamy golden polenta. Plump mushrooms adorned a perfectlyseared piece of filet mignon on the other side of the plate.
Seeing Killian in his element stolemy breath and replaced my rational thought with unapologetic lust.
I must have made a sound because hefinally lifted that intent gaze to find me hovering like a creeper against thedoor. His eyes softened and his mouth quirked up on one side. I tried not tomelt.
“Hey,” he said casually, like itwasn’t an invasion of his professional privacy for me to be watching everysingle thing he did. Probably because he couldn’t hear the very, veryinappropriate thoughts running through my head.
“Hey.”
“Hungry?”
I suddenly felt very shy. I hadn’tdone this with a guy in years. Flirt, I mean. I hadn’t even been interested insomeone since Derrek first started to pursue me.
And Killian wasn’t just any guy. Hewas everything cool, strong and masculine. So very different than me—weird,weak and feminine.
We couldn’t have been bigger opposites.
He couldn’t have been more of what Iwas convinced I didn’t want.
And yet here I was, quivering andinterested and tired of telling my heart what it should want instead of lettingit chase after what it knew it wanted.
“Yes,” I answered succinctly.
Killian held my gaze, one handshaping the side of his beard. “I have something for us out in the dining room.Is that okay?”
I pointed at the dish he’d been sofocused on. “What’s that?”
He frowned down at the plate.“Practice.”
“For the guy fromGourmand?”
Killian’s frown deepened. “HeathNoble.”
“Yikes,” I hissed, feeling hisanxiety ratchet through the room. “That’s not just any critic.”
“No kidding,” he sighed. “Plus, healready hates me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s showing up just to write abad review.”
I moved closer so I could inspecthis dish. Obviously, I hadn’t tasted it yet, but it looked perfect. It looked beyondperfect. It was everything good food should be. The steak was fat and juicy,sear lines making a plaid outline on the surface. The mushrooms had been slicedexactly evenly and the brown sauce coating them smelled robust and savory. Thepolenta was the right side dish, creamy, golden with tipped peaks and the rightamount of substance without looking gluey. Despite everything on the plate, theasparagus refused to be ignored—a verdant green, pliable without being floppy,and crisp ends that would crunch in contrast to the soft polenta. It wasflawless.
Immaculate.
