Searching the area, he caught a glimpse of her slipping through the back exit. His feet took flight. He might like a sure thing, but he loved a good chase.
A cool, crisp breeze whispered over Avery’s face as he ducked out of the ballroom onto the veranda. Gravel crunched below, drawing him to the stone rail. He spotted her, strides long and sure on sexy black stilts. When he stripped her bare, those heels would be the only thing he left on her.
Taking the steps two at a time, Avery vaulted down the concrete stairs to follow her across the brightly lit parking lot. He rubbed his hands together, his gaze glued to her swaying ass until she climbed two steps into a bus-size catering van. The side panel marked Giselle’s Catering slid shut behind her.
You’re mine now, Legs.
He stopped outside the van, ready to rap his knuckles against it. Raised voices from inside made him hesitate. Fuck, she wasn’t alone.
Shifting to one side of the door, he leaned against the van to wait. She’d been flitting around all night, so maybe she wouldn’t linger too long.
“…warned you about altering my recipes.”
“Sorry.” The apology held more attitude than remorse, but the soft, raspy cadence rippled over his balls like the first lick of a hot velvety tongue before a much-needed blow job.Please be Legs.“I only added a little raspberry—”
“I know perfectly well what you added,” the harridan ranted on, and Avery’s shoulders hunched toward his ears at the shrill ass-chewing that nearly sent said balls into hiding. Talk about a mood killer. “Imagine my surprise when Mrs. Preston expressed her delight with the tart raspberry flavor of my petit fours whenmypetit foursare vanilla!”
“It’s my fault, G,” another girl jumped in, her voice thick with a silky Southeast Texas drawl. He could get into that, too. “Miz Reese called back after the tastin’ to ask if we could spice up the petit fours—said they were a tad bland—and I forgot to tell you.”
“It wasn’t your responsibility to tell me. As my pâtissier, Jo, it was yours. Instead, you deliberately went behind my back, and your little experiment could have cost me my reputation.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” Jo said with a little less defiance, making Avery want to jump to her defense. It was a mix up, for fuck’s sake.
“See that it doesn’t, or the only work you’ll find is in the bakery of your local grocery store.”
The rear door opened and slammed, and footsteps on gravel had him peeking around the corner. Definitely not Legs. Platinum blonde and bony as fuck. He shuddered.
“I’m sorry ’bout gettin’ you in trouble.”
“Don’t worry about it, Viv,” Jo’s sultry voice drew him closer. “She’s just looking for an excuse to fire me.”
“’Cuz you make everythin’ taste like heaven, and hers tastes like shit.”
“That’s not true. Giselle’s a top-notch chef. She wouldn’t be booking gigs like this if she wasn’t. And you know you love her Beef Bourguignon.”
Both girls groaned, their stomachs growled, and Avery’s joined in. He hadn’t eaten much at dinner, couldn’t even describe what was on his plate. Not with Althea sitting expectantly beside him and her father dissecting him with razor-sharp eyes from across the table.
“She just needs a little help with her confectioneries,” Jo said. “I thought that’s why she hired me.”
“She’s jealous,” Viv soothed. “Like I said, Gruella doesn’t like knowing you’re better than her. She’ll really freak when she finds out your tryin’ to open a pâtisserie.”
What the fuck is a pâtisserie?
Shuffling and clattering halted the conversation, and the minutes dragged by with no hope of getting Legs alone. He slumped against the van.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
With a sigh, he glanced at his watch. He could have already made it to Pulse by now and been balls-deep in the backseat of his car. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but he’d at least have been surrounded by women eager to get him there.
Tits—what the fuck was her name?—was eager. And probably looking for him, right now. Maybe he could sweet talk his way past her damn name.
The back door finally opened, and a pint-sized girl with black curls, lots of curves, and a ring on her finger stepped down from the truck. The platter she balanced on one hand was almost as big as she was.
NotLegs and off limits, but which voice did she belong to? Sultry Jo or Twangy Viv?
She turned to wait for Legs and gave him his answer when she opened her mouth to ask, “When’re you gonna tell her to shove her ol’ petit fours where the sun don’t shine? Me and Theo are countin’ the days ’til we can come work for you.”
“The bank said no, so unless you know where I can find a money tree, we’ll have to stick it out with Giselle.” Legs’ seductive rasp and a tray of little white cakes preceded a pair of sticks he could now pick out of a lineup. Legs he could imagine wrapped around him. Christ, his dick flexed.
