She’s behind the bar, cheeks flushed, eyes narrowed.
Across from her is a man who looks like he stepped straight out of the “Guaranteed Sexy Trouble” catalog.
Dark hair.
Ice-blue eyes.
Tattooed forearms.
Rolled sleeves.
An apron tied low around his hips.
The new chef Rae hired.
Sebastian—also known as “the man who does NOT exist as a chef,” according to Lina.
Her hair is blueberry-purple today, pulled into two indignant pigtails.
He’s got a towel over his shoulder and a jawline sharp enough to slice diamonds.
Right now they’re trading looks that screamI will burn youandI will burn you with superior technique.
I walk up slowly, like I’m entering a crime scene.
“I’m telling you my dish did NOT need salt!” Lina snarls.
“And I’m telling you yes, it did, because not everyone eats like vegan deer in a forest, Tinkerbell.”
She makes an outraged sound.
He gives her a half-smirk—sinfully arrogant.
Lina spots me. She arches a brow and lifts her chin, the universal sign for help me or I commit murder.
I grab the bottle on the counter like it’s a natural extension of my hand.
“I texted you I was coming,” I mutter, pretending to search casually for clean glasses.
“Sloane Heart,” she huffs, still fuming, “wasn’t yesterday enough for you?”
“Yesterday?” I pretend to think. “Hmm, let’s see. A few drops of eggnog and all those muscles that showed up to put up the lights? You have no idea how stressed I still am.”
Sebastian’s smirk widens—criminally.
Lina shoots him a death glare.
Then she turns to me with the expression of a mother whose teenage daughter has made proud, terrible choices.
She’s ten years older than me, but when she’s in Supreme Judge mode she might as well be a century older.
“And wine before your yoga session with yourclient?” she says, each word a dagger.
“It wasn’t wine. It was… meditative liquid.”
“It was a premium red from Sunrise Ranch, Sloane.”
Okay, fine. Fair.
