“Your chicken has the perfect grill marks.” I move between the tables.
Heat from the portable burners. Smoke clings to my shirt.
“The seasoning on the chicken is spot-on.”
Then I’m at her table. I check the food first, or else I know I won’t be able to tear my eyes off her.
The chicken looks bland, like she hasn’t seasoned it. She flips it over. Pale. Sad. There’s barely a glimmer of salt.
Our eyes meet.
She smiles, her eyebrows knitting together. “Crushing it?” She’s using my words, and I love it when she gets sassy like this. “Seasoning spot-on?”
I bite back my smile so hard my jaw hurts. “Did you season it at all?”
“I think so.” She picks up bottles of seasoning. “I did this one and”—she hands me the first bottle, reaching for the next—“and this one. Salt.” She holds it up.
My smirk breaks through. “You have to twist them open.”
She looks at the bottle for a beat, then back at me. “Oh.”
Her cheeks go pink, and I see her resolve cracking. If it were just us, she’d burst into laughter, and I’d enjoy every moment.
I sprinkle the seasoning, salt hitting the meat, and move on before I kiss those confused lips.
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” I hear Jaclyn say. “We all struggle to keep it together whenhe’sgiving instructions.”
I inwardly chuckle.
“Looks like you’re doing just fine,” I say, passing her pan, perfectly seasoned, beautifully grilled chicken.
“Doll, I’m not a newbie.” She can even look me in the eye without checking out my bare torso. “Give her a break.” She winks at Shay, then grows serious. “Shay, sweetie, your heat is too high.”
I let Jaclyn assist Shay as I continue to each table. Laughter, the hiss of oil, and the clatter of tongs fill the room.
I know Jaclyn will get it right. The woman would know how to cook blindfolded.
“It’s not just the shirtless thing.” Jaclyn doesn’t keep her voice low as I turn toward the counter. “It’s that voice. That low, sexy voice that makes it hard to follow the recipe.”
Low and sexy, huh?
Shay snorts.
It’s quiet but unrestrained.
I guess she doesn’t think so. And weirdly, I like that.
She isn’t here to stroke my ego. If anything, she’s making me work for her attention.
I keep teaching.
I keep moving.
I keep pretending I don’t know exactly where she is at any given time.
But my jokes land better when I know she’s listening. And I catch myself glancing her way after each one, to see if she’s smiling.
She is.
